Booze and Photographs
by vennumberten
Summary: What do an American chain-smoking photographer and an alcoholic British actor have in common? Absolutely nothing. AU, full summary inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** When Alfred F. Jones ends up with a series of rather unflattering snapshots of rising star Arthur Kirkland, the actor will do anything to keep the pictures from going public. And yes, he will do _anything. _After all, he's shooting a film that could very well get him an Oscar. It's not exactly a great time to take a hit to the ol' public image.

Alfred, on the other hand, is searching for his big break into the art photography world; therefore, he is all too glad to take Arthur up on his offer. The camera loves the guy, so why not make him the subject of a shoot? Alfred won't stand for any fanfare, of course— no massive cameras, green screens, Photoshop. Acting has no right to be near Alfred's camera.

The problem, therein, lies in getting Arthur to open up. Despite what magic he can create onscreen, he's so repressed that his feelings probably drowned in the booze a while ago (along with his liver). Alfred isn't much better.

Booze and photographs are now beyond hiding them. Their lives are twisted together and tied firmly in a knot, and it's their decision where they go next.

**A/N: Thanks for picking up this little tale! A warning before you go on, though; in this story, there will be language, incredible amounts of gay, language, angst, language, sadness, language, fluff that will make your nose bleed, and language. Hope I remembered to mention language.**

**If these things offend you, I wouldn't recommend that you continue reading. If not, I hope you enjoy!**

Many people hate their jobs, but few despise them with as much passion as Alfred Franklin Jones.

Alfred has what you would call an all-American charm. He's tall, solidly built, straw-blonde, with a streamlined Roman nose and wire-framed glasses; behind them, eyes as blue as the sky above the mountains. He's a walking folk song.

However, Alfred realized too late that a degree in photography wouldn't help him in real life unless he actually became a photographer. A year after college, Mister Jones became a cynical, jaded motherfucker like everyone else on the planet.

It was also when he picked up smoking.

He sucks on a cigarette now as he crouches at the back door of a classy bar. This isn't a good night to be sitting in some back alley; his bomber jacket (the real deal, it was his granddad's in the Second World War), warm as it is, isn't up to the task of shielding him from New England weather.

_How hard could being a paparazzo be, anyway? _he had foolishly thought three months ago. He was good with a camera- _really_ good- and he and his brother needed the money. Too bad Boston was a sucky place to find celebrities, and when stars actually decide to show up, Alfred has trouble, you know, actually taking pictures of them.

Long story short, he's still poor.

Balancing the cigarette between his lips, Alfred fiddles with the settings on the camera hanging around his neck. It's a reliable hunk of black plastic he's had for years. Even if he could afford a new camera, he doesn't think he would buy one.

God_damn _it is cold out.

Alfred hadn't even _wanted_ to come to Boston. A spur-of-the-moment cross-country road trip to visit Mom with his twin brother had turned into a my-car-broke-down-in-Connecticut-and-we-can't-afford-repairs-guess-we're-stuck-in-New-England road trip. Alfred missed Los Angeles desperately. It was warm there, for one, and he didn't even mind the smog. Maybe he even longed for it. _My lungs are used to the abuse,_ he laughs inwardly, and takes another pull from his cigarette.

Alfred had started to actually look for a _real job—_ God forbid— when he heard about some big-budget movie filming on-location in Boston. And, as luck would have it, the lead actor was none other than Arthur Kirkland, "Hottest Actor of _Insert Anything Here_."

After a career of obscurity as a small-time character actor, the guy had suddenly sprung into every leading role imaginable, all in the past year and a half. He was said to be the ultimate gentleman, the biggest class act of Hollywood, a throwback to the Golden Age of film with a screaming fanbase a mile wide.

Alfred can hear the screaming fanbase now, in fact, even from behind the building. _"Arthur, Arthur!"_ they chant, squealing delightedly. He can imagine their uniforms, the army-fatigue green T-shirts emblazoned with a giant black _3 KIRKLAND,_ or something equally stupid.

Alfred complains to no one, "Just let the man enjoy his dinner," smoke flying haphazardly out of his mouth and into the wind. But then he remembers that he's just as bad as them when it comes to the disruption of celebrity lives, so he shuts up.

He hears the clicking of cameras, now, too. Boston is usually quiet, but suddenly paparazzi are springing up out of nowhere in search of a good shot of the British star. Just to think, Alfred could have had a chance for once.

At least the others hadn't found the back entrance. Alfred guessed that Kirkland wouldn't want to brave the crowds when he left- some actors went so far as to use body doubles to distract fans- and he might use the back door instead. In that case, he could steal a shot or two and then run as fast as possible before the bodyguards caught up to him.

For even a bad photo, he might make enough money to buy the good cereal, not the store brand that tastes like absolute shit.

Not that Alfred knows what shit tastes like. Figure of speech.

The cigarette burns to the end. Sighing out one last puff, he throws the stub into a puddle. It's starting to rain now, heavily, and Alfred's glad for the awning above his head, keeping him mostly dry. Rain has always been comforting to him. Rain comes and goes but it always makes the same sound, that pitter-patter that combines with the city noises to make urban music.

Urban Music. _Good name for a band._

Alfred's too busy thinking about how great his band Urban Music would be if it existed that he almost doesn't notice when the back door opens. When he does, he shoots to his feet, camera at the ready.

_Is it Kirkland?_

No, it can't be— there's no bodyguards or anything, and the guy is swaying sort of dangerously, like he's had too much to drink. Not Arthur Kirkland, the gentleman to end all gentlemen.

The guy falls face-first into a puddle with not so much as a moan. He's _definitely _had too much to drink.

But… no, it _has_ to be Kirkland. The back door is closed now, but in the flash of light from inside the building, Alfred had seen the trademark dirty-blonde hair and high cheekbones, the narrow green eyes and strong jaw line. It's the same face he had seen on countless movie posters.

Dude is obviously wasted, based on the fact that he iss currently snoring in a mucky puddle behind a bar. This is not the polite, genteel actor the newspapers speak so highly of. His suit is rumpled and open, his tie soaking in the filth.

The tie alone had probably cost more than Alfred made in a week.

For once in his life, Alfred isn't really sure what to do. Usually, to fix a situation, he rattles off a joke, adds a crude gesture, everyone laughs, tension = dissipated. People tell him that he should do stand-up, but Alfred doesn't like the thought of that; he can't sit down and write jokes. It takes away the thrill of thinking one up right there and then, and what fun is telling the same old joke every night, anyway? Besides, _sitting down_ and doing something doesn't agree with him.

It finally occurs to Alfred that maybe he should move the guy, so he doesn't drown or something. _Can you even drown in a puddle? _ Supposing that it should be the last thing on his mind, and being careful not to get his camera wet, he leans over and pulls the actor out of the muck. They guy is still fast asleep, and snoring like a baby.

_If the baby was hammered, that is._

Kirkland looks like shit, but at least he's out of the puddle.

The girls out front are still chanting. Alfred wonders what they would do if they saw their hero like this. Would they hate him for it, or would it change his persona from the gentleman to the mysterious bad boy?

It was always hard to tell, with Hollywood.

Like a brick to the forehead, something very important abruptly occurs to Alfred Jones. A very famous man, that he has been waiting hours for, is now laying in front of him, passed out drunk. A very scandalous position.

Isn't that the kind of thing the paparazzi are supposed to look out for?

But… it doesn't seem… right.

_I mean, the guy's just laying there. Totally at my mercy._

Kirkland mumbles something and goes back to drunken dreamland. He smells like whiskey and tobacco, which makes Alfred really want another smoke.

His camera's never felt heavier.

_I mean, the rent is due… like, three weeks ago._

He needs it more than this guy does. Kirkland's probably a bajillionaire.

God _dammit._

He has to be the biggest pussy on the planet.

Alfred isn't heartless enough for this paparazzo shit. Maybe it's time to end this chapter in his career.

Hoping that this doesn't count as a kidnapping, Alfred grabs Kirkland (Jesus Christ, he's heavy) and drapes the actor's arm over his shoulder. Prodding him into some semblance of wakefulness, he manages to get the groaning, rambling man to stumble along.

_Fuck you, Alfred,_ he thinks bitterly to himself. _You always have to be the hero._

Arthur Kirkland is suddenly becoming very vocal, apparently unaware of his surroundings. He doesn't seem to care that the man helping him along is a complete stranger, so he begins to spew an incoherent life story.

Alfred tries to get him to shut up a bit as they try to sneak away through the alleys— the sounds of the girls (and probably some guys, in that crowd) are fading now— but the guy just won't stop talking. His voice is rough and hoarse, like he's been ranting like thid all night.

"I'ss no' _worth _it," he moans, his words obscured beneath slurring and his accent, which is thickened by the booze. His tone, usually so refined on screen, has diminished into the "oi guv'nor" speak you see on TV. _This would be funny,_ Alfred thinks, _if it wasn't so fucking bizarre._ _A paparazzo, ignoring what would be a massive scandal, helping an A-list movie star back to his apartment to sleep off some booze._

Christ on a cracker, he's bringing international movie star Arthur Kirkland back to his apartment. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_

"You hear th', tha', th' _screamin',_ mate? The little birdies out front? Mate, I dun' even _like_ birdies, no' mos' o' th' time. Like, i'ss not _worth. _Worth. Worth." Kirkland giggles a little. "Cannae even remember!" he screams, in a Scottish brogue.

"Yeah, yeah," Alfred grumbles. "Just concentrate on walking, a'ight, buddy?"

"Me brother talks like this," he says, almost growling, his voice is so low. "And- ha!- my sis, sis, sister—" switching to a high, womanly Irish— "both my sisters, yeah? They talk like this! UP and _down_ and UP and _down…"_

Alfred Jones, in all his twenty-three years, has never seen someone so smashed. And that counts himself, because Alfred is no stranger to alcohol. He's rather proud of his reputation of being able to drink anybody under the table. Just don't tell his brother. _Matt is a worrier,_ Mom would always say.

Ooh, thoughts of Mom. Not good. Thoughts of Mom always led to drinking more than is good for him. But at least he had some discretion when it came to knocking back a few, unlike Kirkland here.

Well, no, he shouldn't judge! He knows nothing about the guy. For all he knows, Arthur Kirkland could be suffering. _He has a few mansions to suffer in,_ Alfred bets. _Maybe even a Lamborghini or two, so he can drive and be depressed at the same time._

Okay, this is impossible. There is no way that he can get all the way home with the man in such a state.

Sighing, Alfred takes his cell phone out of his pocket, hoisting the slouching Kirkland up with his shoulder. He's a bipolar drunk, apparently, because now he's all quiet and angry, muttering curses under his breath. But at least he's stopped with the accents.

Number one on speed dial. Alfred presses the ancient phone against his ear (it's a flip phone, who even has those anymore?), anxiously listening to the ring. He sets Arthur down against the wall on the left side.

Answer tone. _Shit fuck motherfucker goddamn shit. _He hangs up, not bothering to leave a message, and calls again.

This time, it picks up on the third ring. Sighing with relief, Alfred cries, "Matt!"

There's a frustrated noise from the other end. _"Christ, Al, I'm working!"_

"Yeah, yeah, I know!"

"_And you should be, too!"_

Alfred pulls at the collar of his T-shirt, which is suddenly tight. "Well, Mattie boy, that's just the thing."

Silence, for a moment. _"Oh my God. What have you done?"_

"Nothing _bad,"_ laughs Alfred nervously. Kirkland's sleeping again, his head lolling against his disheveled, muck-covered shoulder. The light from a streetlamp leaks into this corner of the alley; the filthy actor looks like just another Boston street bum.

It occurs to Alfred that Kirkland doesn't have anything on to protect him from the rain. Pulling the phone away from his ear for a second, Alfred pulls off his own bomber jacket and drapes it over him.

"_If you don't tell me what's going on right now, Al, I swear I'll—"_

"Well, I found him. Kirkland, that is."

"_W—_what?_ Awesome! Man, that is _great! _Did you get the picture?"_

Alfred runs one hand through his hair. Matt is laughing, celebrating, and Alfred feels like a bit of a dick for having to crush his hopes like this. "No."

"_Well, why the hell not?"_

Alfred sighs heavily. "Because he's so fucking drunk that he can't even keep his eyes open. He stumbled out the back door and passed out, and I was scared to just… _leave _him there. You don't do that to people," he says with conviction. "Can you bring your cab 'round so we can take him home?"

"_You know where he lives?"_

"No_. Our_ home."

"_I don't think I heard you right there, Al."_

"We're taking him back to our place," Alfred repeats, much louder this time.

Matthew laughs bitterly and says, _"Oh, shit, man. I am going to _kill _you, Al. This isn't funny! I can't believe I actually _believed _you!"_

Alfred wishes he hadn't given his jacket away; he tries to rub some circulation back into his arms. No dice; he's still freezing. "Dude, I swear to God, I am _not _kidding."

Quiet again._ "Wow. Oh God, wow." _

The rain is coming down harder than ever. If Kirkland didn't look so peaceful, Alfred would have taken his jacket back.

"_Al, we can't kidnap a famous actor."_

"It's not kidnapping!" protests Alfred. "You can't see him, Matt. This guy is… man, I... well." _English Language, why hast thou forsaken me? _ "I guess I've just never seen anyone more wasted," he finishes lamely.

"_If…"_ Matthew sighs. _"Alfred, If I get caught for this, I'll get fired. A personal errand on company time... We're poor enough as it is."_

Alfred grins hugely. "I knew I could count on you, bro!"

"_I haven't agreed yet, you fuckwad!"_

"I'm in the alley between the deli and that really trashy sex shop, right? You know the place. See you soon!"

"_Al—"_

Alfred Jones hangs up on his twin brother, and doesn't even feel guilty. _I'm just that badass._

The Badass sits and waits, sitting against the wall across from the snoring actor. And not little dainty grunts, either; they're massive shaking snores that could probably break windows.

Alfred doesn't know how Matthew made it there so fast. Maybe he was drawn by the sound?

"Get in, bitch," Matt shouts from the window of his cab. "The meter's running."

"Yeah, yeah," Alfred sighs, and picks Kirkland up by the armpits, carefully draping the bomber jacket over the actor's face (he didn't want anyone recognizing him, okay?) and dragging him not-so delicately out to the sidewalk. Opening the back door of his brother's cab, he throws Kirkland unceremoniously onto the seat.

Alfred himself hops in and slams the door, shoving Kirkland's legs out of the way, not bothering with a seatbelt. "Yo, chauffer! Drive!" Alfred commands.

His brother replies with a weary "Shut up."

Yeah, they're twins, but they are as fraternal as they come. Matthew's taller (which is an accomplishment, with Alfred being 6"1') and chubbier. Alfred's the leaner one, more muscled, much to Matthew's chagrin. Their eyes are blue, but Matthew's have an indigo tint that bright-blue-eyed Alfred has always been secretly jealous of.

"I can't believe I have _Arthur _motherfucking _Kirkland_ in the back of my cab," Matthew laughs, running a hand through his hair. His is so blonde that it's almost white— long, light, and curly, reaching all the way down to is jaw, unlike Alfred's neat cut. Well, neat except for that one cowlick that cannot be tamed by any hair product known to Man.

Alfred smiles tiredly. "I can't quite believe it either, Matt. What time is it?"

"A little past midnight. You were out there for a long time, weren't you?"

Alfred tries to rest his hands on his chest, but finds his camera there. He had almost forgotten about it. "Four fucking hours, dude, and I didn't have the guts to take the picture," he sighs. "The perfect photo op, too. I bet you wanna punch me."

"No," the Canadian demurs, "I don't. I knew you would have too much of a conscience to do the paparazzo thing."

"I haven't taken one picture in three months, Mattie."

"Mm."

"So I've been unemployed this whole time, huh?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Why'd you let me be such an idiot?"

"It's sort of funny, to watch you run around like that," Matt laughs. "Really, Al? Celeb chasing in Boston?" Alfred can see his brother's wicked smile in the rearview mirror.

"Go suck a dick," Alfred says lovingly.

"Sorry, I thought you were the fag of the family?"

Alfred scoffs, "Oh, very funny, brother."

"Yeah, I thought so, too." He runs a red light with the driving skill of a native Massachusettsian. It's impressive, for a boy from Montreal.

Kirkland is still snoring, but at least it's muffled by the jacket, which is still over his face.

They're home in about half an hour, which is pretty good for Boston traffic. Matt knows all the best ways to break traffic laws; it's what makes him such a good cabbie. "Get out and take our famous guest with you," Matt orders. "My shift ends in—" he checks the dashboard clock— "three hours, so I'll be home then."

"Right." Alfred opens the door and shakes the actor awake.

"Piss off," Kirkland groans.

Matthew bursts out laughing. "The gentleman of Hollywood, indeed," he snorts.

Al grins. Saying his goodbyes, he promises that he won't do anything stupid and waves Matt off. He watches his brother drive away before he slings Kirkland's arm over his shoulders once again and enters the building. It's a shitty place, to be sure, but the rent isn't that bad, and the landlady is too stoned most of the time to care if it's late.

His and Matt's apartment is on the top floor, and since the elevator has been broken since 1957, Alfred must somehow find a way to get Kirkland up the stairs. The actor does not seem keen on cooperating, so Alfred does what seems most logical: he sweeps an arm under Kirkland's knees, keeping one arm behind his shoulders, and lifts him bride-style up the three flights, which is quite a feat. The guy is only an inch or two shorter than Alfred himself, and Alfred's arms are stretched and straining rather uncomfortably.

He realizes what this must look like. The jacket had fallen off of Kirkland's face long ago and was now pooled in a grimy pile on his chest. He was up for recognition by anybody.

Thankfully, no doors slam open in excitement at a movie star being carried through the building. They make it into Alfred's apartment with no incidents.

Cursing in the dark, Alfred struggles over to the couch, which is in the same room as the kitchen, the TV room, and the bedroom. He dumps Kirkland on the couch with as little daintiness as he did in the taxi, and then stumbles over to pull at the cord that would turn on the lights.

The room is tiny, crowded, and badly lit, but it is _clean,___because if the brothers have nothing else, they have their dignity.

Alfred isn't sure what to do with himself, and it's unnerving. He busies himself if the kitchen, washing dishes and wiping down counters. Around two AM, he makes himself some instant ramen and washes those dishes, too.

A thought keeps nagging at him, though: he never got a picture. Sure, he was done with the paparazzo thing, which had been stupid in the first place. But looking at Kirkland— jeez, even when sleeping off booze and covered in city grime, the man was imminently photographable. That old thrill wells up inside him, when he _really_ wants to capture something and keep the image forever. _Faces like that could get me into a gallery,_ he thinks idly.

Oh.

Maybe—

Um.

No, he already said he wouldn't.

But…

It wouldn't, like, be for a tabloid or whatever.

Just a… camera test.

Yeah.

Alfred had shown extreme promise, his professors had always said. He'd stopped believing them a while ago.

But look, suddenly there's a face all cameras love, snoring away on his goddamn couch. It would be unexpected, totally candid.

Just one shot, if he could get just one shot.

The spark of an idea, the first one in a year, flares deep in Alfred's mind. He grabs hold of it, clutches it like a life preserver to a man drowning.

If only…

Alfred grips his camera, hands shaking but ready. Creeping over to the couch, he squats down, camera lens almost directly in the sleeping actor's face.

One press of a button suddenly seems more important than it should be. It feels like he's on a cliff or something, and he can choose to either step back or _jump like a fucking madman._

Like all good artists, Alfred chooses the latter.

There's a blinding flash, and the picture appears on the screen, instantly. It came out _really _good; Kirkland's mouth is slightly open, eyes closed. Even though he's drooling a little, and his face is still covered in filth, he looks strangely peaceful.

Alfred grins at it until he feels a hand gripping his neck.

"Wha—" he croaks, and Kirkland throws him to the ground. Alfred's head smacks rather painfully against the edge of the cheap coffee table. It flips over, unwashed mugs and coasters flying everywhere.

"Who the hell are you and where am I?" the actor cries as he leaps to his feet. He's still a little drunk; it's obvious in the way he still is slurring, swaying a little, but at least he's done with the complaining, incoherence, and accents.

Alfred carefully rights the card table, picks up the fallen items, and pulls his camera off of his neck. He puts it on top of the small TV.

"Did— did you just _photograph _me?"

"Yeah," Alfred admits sheepishly.

After looking dumbfounded for a moment, the actor laughs hysterically, wiping his hand down his face. "Holy hell. I've been kidnapped by a crazy paparazzo."

"Not kidnapped!" Alfred protests. "Rescued. You were _out cold_ on the street, man. I only brought you home!" He's getting angry now. _Jesus, performing a random act of kindness gets you nothing but shit these days._

But Kirkland flops back down, abruptly drained of all anger. "I was out cold," he repeats flatly.

Alfred simply says "Yup."

"You didn't deny that you're a paparazzo."

"I am. Well, I was."

"'Was'?"

"I quit. Tonight, actually. Two hours ago, give or take."

The actor laughs a little, very lightly, like he thinks this whole thing is one big, bad dream; like he's fallen down the rabbit hole and he'll wake up under a tree in a few hours time, safe and sound. Maybe there'll even be a moral.

"Your name is?" Kirkland asks curtly.

"Alfred F. Jones. 'F' stands for Franklin, after the fat Founding Father with syphilis."

_Well, that went right over his head. _What's that saying, about awkward silences?

"Really," Kirkland says uncomfortably.

"I prefer Al, as you would probably guess."

"Of course you do." The actor rubs his eyes.

Oh, _that's_ the saying. _Silence so thick you could cut it with a knife._ "I can take you back to wherever you're staying in the morning," Al offers.

Silence.

"You want something to eat? Or whatever. 'Cause I can whip something up."

Alfred is aware that he's rambling, but if this quiet goes on much longer he might lose his mind.

Kirkland rubs his eyes. "What— no. No, thank you."

Al can almost admire this guy for his— what's it called? Oh, yeah. _Grace under pressure._

"I will do anything for you not to release that photograph you took," Kirkland says gravely.

Alfred can feel his eyebrows raise. "I wasn't—"

"This is not a good time for my reputation to take a hit, you understand." The actor smoothes his eyebrows with the heel of his palm, deftly, like he does it often. He's self-conscious about it, isn't he?

All Alfred can think is, _What does a man with everything have to be self-conscious about?_

"I am working on a very large film. One that could potentially get me in with the Academy, so I would like to remain publicly untarnished for a time." The actor stares at Alfred, his green eyes bright even past a haze of booze. "I will do anything to keep those pictures private, Mr. Jones."

He promptly turns over and goes back to sleep, before Alfred can even open his mouth.

_Anything, _Alfred thinks, his heart pounding. He hadn't planned on releasing the picture anyway, but, well, the actor's offer was too good to pass up on. The idea fermenting in his brain burst open in a flow of infinite possibilities.

Possibilities. Getting his photography _out there, _for one. Money. Recognition. A dream career.

The key to that dream career is snoring gracelessly on his couch.

Alfred grins. Maybe being the hero had worked out, for once.

**A/N: Thanks so much for taking the time to read this! Feedback = love, so if you have the time, please review and tell me what you think. I can't wait to explore these characters more. In fact, the next chapter will most likely be from Arthur's point of view! Hope you stick around for it!**


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur can't remember the last time he was so comfortable. There's a blanket over him; the couch is nice and soft. Well, he can't remember exactly _why _he is on a couch, but it's nice nonetheless.

He _shouldn't_ be comfortable, though, and that thought is what is waking him up. He should be very _un_comfortable, because of something he did, but the part of his brain that deals in regret is still slumbering.

A distinct pain begins to bloom in the back of his skull. _Ah, there it is. _A hangover, and what a good one it's going to be. Arthur can feel the sickness spreading now, through his veins and seeping into his bones. Scotch always does this to him.

He knows he should stop drinking; the only problem is actually stopping.

Last night starts to trickle back, the memories taking their time. There's the bar, a quiet one, with the screaming fans outside ruining his solace. (They take annoying him as some sort of occupation.) He remembers drinking way too much, ditching Francis, and stumbling outside with the intention of smoking, even though he quit years ago; somehow, that was but a minor detail to his drunken self. His drunken self was absolutely _gasping_ for a cigarette and wouldn't stop until he found one, no _sir!_

Yet even though he had never gotten a smoke, there's the distinct scent of it, attached to a person… Ah, yes, the man who carried him had smelled of tobacco. That man must have been a smoker himself.

_The man who carried him. _Arthur groans and tries not to open his eyes just yet.

Alfred. The man's name was— is, rather, since Arthur is still on the bloke's couch— Alfred F. Jones. _'F' stands for Franklin, after the fat Founding Father with syphilis, _Arthur remembers, and grimaces. A face emerges from the fog of the hangover, a square jaw and wide eyes behind crooked glasses, a nervous smile and messy hair, complete with a total lack of social graces.

He had also had a camera.

_Fucking hell, the photograph._

Arthur shoots up, throwing off the covers and promptly falling onto the floor.

"Arthur Kirkland, you are so graceful," he rages into the carpet, trying to ignore the throbbing in his left elbow.

He disentangles himself from the blanket. But… it's not a blanket. It's a leather jacket, and it smells like the city. He sits up and throws it aside carelessly.

Arthur's mouth feels like the Sahara and he probably looks like he's had the plague.

A man who is decidedly not Alfred is staring at him with a grave fascination. Arthur stares back, admittedly a bit frightened of the intense scowl on the other's face. The man looks a bit like Alfred, or what he can remember of Alfred past the alcohol; this man is taller, though, maybe even a bit fatter, with longer, lighter hair and darker eyes.

"Hello," Arthur greets feebly.

The man's scowl deepens. He has a death grip on the mug in his hand, which is trembling a little.

"What's your name?" _Who the _hell_ are you to look at me like that? _is the part he doesn't vocalize.

"Um," says the man.

Arthur smiles gently at him, while inside he is screaming every swear word in his vernacular. "If you could kindly tell me where Alfred Jones is…"

"Wha'?" a sleep-thickened voice calls. Arthur follows the nervous man's gaze and turns around, where he sees two separate mattresses; Jones is sitting up on one of them, hair sticking out at various angles. He must have forgotten, or just hadn't bothered, to take his glasses off, and they hang crookedly from one ear. Squinting at Arthur (he must be really blind without the specs), he runs a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to smooth it.

"Um, hi," Jones says. He's wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, very dirty, probably from dragging Arthur around. Had he not even changed or bathed since then? Looking down, Arthur sees that he's even filthier, and figures that he shouldn't judge.

But, it doesn't stop him from judging Jones as much as he damn well wants.

Jones stands, stretches, and turns to the shy man. "Matt, is there anything for breakfast?"

Matthew mumbles something about cereal.

Arthur can't help but notice the little frown that cuts through the grin on Jones's face, but it's gone just as fast. "Can you—"

"Yeah," Matt cuts off quickly, and scurries off to the little corner of the one-room flat that serves as a kitchen.

Jones gives Arthur an apologetic look. "Sorry," he says, giving a little endearing half-smile that makes Arthur want to hit him. "That's my brother, Matt. He's… _like_ this. With people he doesn't know, anyway. He's gotta measure you up for a while. Don't take it personally or anything. Just don't be an asshole and you should be all set."

Arthur gives a little shake of his head. He doesn't think he should even attempt to get a word in edgewise.

Jones opens his mouth like he's about to say something_,_ but Arthur really can't afford to hear the photographer's voice again, not when he is so _loud _and _talkative_ and Arthur's head feels as if it is steadily being sawn open with a butter knife. So he interrupts, "Can I bother you for a bath and a phone?"

Jones blinks. "In what order?"

Sighing, Arthur massages his temples. He is familiar enough with hangovers to know it won't help, but hope never killed anybody.

Has it?

He stops and draws his hands back to his sides, just in case.

No one knows where he is. Francis, a childhood friend and current co-star, is probably panicking and calling everyone he knows. Roderich, the ever-cantankerous director, is probably just furious that his lead actor has gone missing and they can't finish the film without him. Roderich's ex-wife and current lover (a long, complicated story that Arthur doesn't even know the half of), Elizaveta, is probably looking through the Yellow Pages for a good private detective.

He really _should_ call first.

"Bath," says Arthur decisively.

"Okay. Door on the left." Jones points to one of two dilapidated doors behind the couch. "The one on the right's supposed to be a closet, but a family of owls've moved in and don't like to be disturbed. Learned that the hard way," he laughs, and he finally fixes his specs, his eyes bright.

They're blue.

"Mm," mumbles Arthur, disinterested. He stands and immediately has to quell the spinning in his head and the bile rising in his throat. When there's a crash, he can almost believe that it's him falling over, until he realizes that he's still on his feet.

Jones's scowling brother calls from the kitchen, "Al, the cabinet door fell off again."

The more outgoing of the two brothers makes a displeased noise, but puts on a smile again.

_He doesn't let himself stay down for long, does he?_ Kirkland thinks dryly.

Turning to Arthur, Jones says, "About the shower. There's no hot water. Sorry. But you can, um, borrow some clothes of mine or something. They'll probably fit you okay."

"Thank you."

They stare at each other for a few awful moments.

"I'm gonna go help Matt, and then get you something to wear." Jones' voice cracks on his brother's name, and it's all Arthur can do hold back a laugh.

The photographer sees. Face red, he scurries off to fix the broken cabinet, and Arthur, with much care, chooses the left door. He doesn't need an owl attack to add to his troubles.

The bathroom is very plain and very clean, like the rest of the flat. There is a shower and a sink, but no mirror; a frame where one should be, certainly, but nothing within.

Sighing, Arthur carefully locks the door behind him, draws the tattered curtains (over a window that has an absolutely _splendid_ view of the building opposite), and shucks his sullied clothes. The space is tiny, and he piles the ruined garments in between the wall and a broken space heater.

Even with the door and curtains closed, he still feels bashful to be so… so _exposed_ in a stranger's bathroom. Hurrying, he turns on the water and hops into the shower, not waiting for it to warm up just because he knows that it never will. The cold is such a shock that he freezes for a moment before remembering to close the shower curtain.

It occurs to him how poor Jones and his brother are. They live in a place like _this, _for one, a one-room shithole without hot water. Arthur usually tries not to blow his extensive funds on material goods, but he can't help but feel a bit over-privileged as he stares at the should-be-a-mirror through a gaping hole in the plastic curtain.

Under the harsh, frigid flow of water that he never quite gets used to, Arthur thinks of the photograph and his half-drunken offer to prevent it from being released. This movie he's working on now… It has the perfect script, great cast (including himself, naturally), and a director who knows what he's doing. He is playing the lead role in what is bound to be an excellent film. "Excellent" as in "Oscar worthy." "Oscar worthy" as in "And the Academy Award for Best Actor goes to Arthur Kirkland."

He simply cannot afford for the public to see that picture, and they especially can't learn the story behind it. Alcoholism isn't an easy thing to hide when you're in the public eye, and Arthur has done a damn good job of it so far. He's not planning on blowing his cover now, of all time. He really will give the photographer anything he can; he just hopes that Jones doesn't choose his "anything" as endless access to Arthur's bank account.

Arthur wonders what time it is, and if it would be too unseemly to go somewhere and get a drink after this.

When he cuts off the frigid flow of water, Arthur notices that the air is even colder.

Shivering violently, he searches for a towel; his teeth are chattering by time he finds one in the cabinet under the sink. It's a child's towel, colored like the American flag, and, as preposterous as it may be, it will have to do. Even if Jones is a paparazzo— or ex-paparazzo, Arthur is still a tad unclear on the details— it's not like he can disrespect the man's hospitality.

Arthur really wants to dislike Jones. He does. He just hasn't found a strong enough reason to yet.

Arthur wraps the towel around his waist and unlocks the door. Taking a deep breath, he steps out and _really_ hopes that Jones is standing outside like a butler, holding a change of clothes, just so he won't have to stand out there, half-naked like an idiot.

Yet, alas, Jones is not acting as a perfect servant. He's still in the kitchen, and there is the smell of fresh, cheap tobacco— he's got his hands on another cigarette, apparently— and the sound of a power drill.

"Al, you asshole, you're gonna break it!"

Arthur blinks, surprised that the voice he hears is Matthew's and not the loudmouthed Alfred's. While Matt is awkward around strangers, he is apparently completely comfortable with his brother; Arthur can't help but feel a bit jealous. Being the youngest and scrawniest in a house full of horrible older brothers and sisters hadn't left many doors open for good sibling-to-sibling relations. Years later, though, Henry is a plumber, and Erin and Siobhan both work in grocery stores.

_And itty-bitty Artie is on top of the world._

The selfish thought _really_ shouldn't be so comforting.

"Break what?" Jones laughs, the sound of the drill stopping. "The cabinet, or this old thing?" There's a _whirr, whirr, _like he's revving up a motorcycle and not a power tool.

"_Both,_ fuckwad. If you break it, Gilbert will kill you."

"He won't kill _me,_ brother o' mine. You're the one who asked to borrow it. The blame will be on _you."_

"But I'll tell him that _you _broke it!"

"You wouldn't have the guts!" Alfred guffaws. Matthew mumbles something, like he doesn't want to acknowledge the fact but knows that it's true. Jones continues, "Gilbo doesn't scare me, dude. He's just a big baby."

"Like you, Al?"

"I hate you, Mattie."

"Cocksucker."

"Canadian."

"Is that even supposed to be an insult?"

"Well, _yeah._ Who would want to be from _Canada?"_

A pause. "Your mother," Matthew finally says.

"Dude, she's your mother too."

"Trivial detail— _ow."_

Alfred laughs maniacally at his brother's pain, which was, most likely, purposely inflicted. Arthur thinks that maybe it is a good time to break up this conversation, before any more violence breaks out, and does so with a polite cough.

The laughter stops abruptly. Jones calls, "One sec, I've got the clothes right here." He runs out from around the corner, sees Arthur, promptly stops in his tracks, and blushes furiously.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously and looks at a rather fascinating chip in the paint above Jones's shoulder.

"Um," Jones says, ever so eloquently. A half-smoked cigarette hangs lazily off of his bottom lip, like he's forgotten about it. He holds out a set of clothes, complete with a shirt, jeans, and boxers. He, and the clothes themselves, smell pungently of tobacco.

Even after years of being clean, this man is making Arthur really want a smoke.

Giving a mumbled thanks, Arthur takes the set and scurries back into the bathroom.

What the hell has he gotten himself into?

He knows his drinking has been a bit… much, lately. Francis had told him so last night, after the first bottle of Scotch had gone cleanly down the hatch. His co-star had given him that I'm-concerned-but-till-sort-of-amused look over his glass of wine, and Arthur had told him to piss off and find somebody else to sexually harass.

Jones had been right about the fit of the clothes; they are actually pretty comfortable, even if the shirt is a rather tacky, touristy one. A giant lobster grins, frighteningly, above massive text proclaiming that the garment was bought in Boston, Massachusetts.

_Alfred Franklin Jones, a paragon of class,_ Arthur thinks.

The jeans, however, are at least two sizes too big, and Arthur must salvage his belt from the wreckage of last night's outfit. A good rinse-off will have to do. His memory is still not quite all there, and he wonders what he must have been laying in to have his clothing coated in such muck.

When he steps out of the bathroom again, he is at least semi-presentable, if not in dire need of a shave and a good teeth-brushing. By now, the cabinet door in the kitchen seems to have been reattached, and Matthew and Alfred have settled in front of the telly, watching some film or another. Though there's no clock in the room, Arthur guesses that it's around nine in the morning.

If possible, his head has begun to hurt even more.

The bomber jacket Arthur had haphazardly tossed aside is now around Jones's shoulders. The photographer apparently doesn't care that it was, not that long ago, drowning in grime. Or maybe it just doesn't matter, since Alfred hasn't cleaned himself either.

Oh bloody fucking hell. How had he not noticed before that they were watching one of _his _films? An early one, too.

_Which one is…? Oh, shit._

It's the first big movie he had ever acted in— what was it, three years ago now? It was the one where he played the lover of a poet. It had been a small role, but daring enough to garner some interest for an actor clambering for attention, after years and years of nothing.

Arthur sends up a silent prayer of thanks that they haven't reached the sex scene yet.

Jones turns around when he hears the bathroom door open, and gives Arthur one of those nervous little lopsided smiles.

_Always searching for approval. Is he a puppy or a man?_

"You said you needed a phone, right?"

Arthur nods, and he doesn't expect the mobile that is thrown much too fast and much too close to his face. Instead of catching it, he just gives a sort of yelp and bats it away.

_Fuck you,_ Arthur thinks, seething, as Jones laughs. _Why does he have to be so loud? Doesn't he realize that I am currently nursing the biggest hangover in the history of mankind?_

"Sorry, dude," Jones giggles. _Giggles. _A man like _him,_ at least six feet tall, with the build of a rugby player, and he's _giggling._ He swings himself over the back of the sofa and retrieves the phone before Arthur can even lean over.

Arthur grumbles his thanks, and Alfred gives an embarrassed, apologetic chuckle before retreating to the bathroom, probably to have his own shower. This leaves Arthur alone in the sitting room with Matthew.

Matthew pointedly doesn't look in Arthur's direction.

Elizaveta had made fun of Arthur for memorizing phone numbers. _You have an iPhone, just put the numbers in your address book! _she had teased. But when you get smashed at a bar, leave your mobile there, and end up in the tiny flat of an evil Canadian and his brother, an imbecilic paparazzo who has the power to ruin your entire career, Arthur knows that he was right to memorize all those numbers. Technology can fail you, but your mind can't.

_Who's laughing now, eh, Liz? _Arthur is feeling particularly vindictive today. He feels that it suits him.

It only takes half a ring before Francis picks up. _"I do not recognize this number, so I am going to assume that it is Arthur Kirkland," _says a lilting male voice, heavily bogged down by an absolutely hateful French accent.

"Yes, it is," Arthur drawls.

"_Ah! I knew it. Where the fuck are you, _mon cher?"

"That's not important, all right? I'm not dead. Just tell Liz and Ro—"

"_I was awfully worried about you, Arthur. I think I deserve to know—"_

"Look!" Arthur growls, surprising even himself with the ferocity. "I'll be in on set, on time tomorrow. It is a very long, horrible story and right now, all you need to know is that my heart is still beating and we can finish the film on time."

"_Why do you insist on being so secretive? Arthur, we have known each other for many years, I do not understand why—"_

Matthew is staring at him now. Arthur glowers back. "Francis… look, I can't—"

Francis is quiet on the other end. _"I should have known better than to _worry _about you. Dear me, I do apologize."_

"Oh, come _on, _Francis."

But Francis has already hung up, so Arthur sighs and brings the phone down from his ear.

The sex scene is on now. Matthew keeps flicking his eyes from the Arthur on his screen to the Arthur in his flat, as if unsure which is the real one.

Groaning, the Arthur who isn't currently pretending to have sex with another man in a movie throws Jones's mobile onto the sofa. He is _done _with this. The second Jones gets out of that shower, he is going to ask him what the terms are for not releasing that bloody photograph.

_Fucking paparazzi, ruining everything._

Well, it's really the alcoholism that's ruining things, but Arthur will be damned before he admits _that._

The actor flops down onto the sofa next to Matthew, to the other man's horror and Arthur's apathy. Matt looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin, being so near to a _stranger,_ and Arthur knows he shouldn't be so cruel, but he can't feel any pity for a man who acts like a four year old.

Arthur can feel it coming: the anger that builds up and up and up into a tower that only the booze can knock over. The problem beneath it all is that the alcohol destroys the tower, but not the pieces. The pieces are always there, waiting to be built up and up and up some other time, some other way. And that's when he has to reach for the drink, because the drink can corrode away the cement and mortar of the awful tower…

_Stop it with the symbolism, Arthur. Everything in moderation._

A door opens, Arthur turns around; Jones steps out of the bathroom. In boxers.

Arthur turns back around. Even watching himself in a film (which he usually finds repulsive; all he does is criticize himself the entire time) is better than staring at a glaringly shirtless stranger.

"Matt, is the laundry done?" Alfred asks his brother.

Matthew nods curtly and glances over at Arthur again, who sighs.

"Mr. Jones," he says to Matthew, "I'm not—"

"Williams," Matthew interrupts.

"…Sorry?"

"Williams. My last name is Williams."

Arthur can feel Alfred watching him, coldly. The photographer says nothing, but Arthur can feel rather than hear an _If you upset my brother, I will send you to hell myself._

"Mr. Williams, then. I must beg you to not be so…"

Matthew looks at him expectantly. Is he _smiling?_

What does he have to be so smug about?

Jones is still staring daggers.

The apartment is _so fucking cold, _and Arthur's head hurts really badly.

_Fuck this, _he thinks.

In fact, he vocalizes that thought.

Matthew, shocked, finally looks him straight in the eye.

Arthur glares right back. "All right, here's how it's going to be." He growls to Matthew, "You're going to stop acting like you're _testing _me. It's ridiculous, and, frankly, juvenile. I can't fucking _think_ straight with you _grading_ me every time I open my fucking mouth. See where I'm coming from? Good. You," he continues, turning his wrath towards the still-half-naked Jones, "will— for one, _you'll put on some bloody trousers! _Then you'll tell me what I have to do for you to not release that picture you took last night. Then I am going to give you what you request, leave, _never come back,_ and you— _both of you—_ will never speak of any of this ever again." He sucks in a huge breath, having lost all his air in the rant, and lets it all out just as loudly.

There is an immense quiet that Arthur rather wants to die in.

But then there's a timid chuckle: "Gentleman of Hollywood," Matthew says quietly.

Arthur blinks at him, shocked. But then Jones bursts out laughing, and what the hell, so does Arthur. He doesn't have enough dignity left to salvage, not around these two.

"I wasn't kidding about the trousers, though," Arthur manages to choke out before collapsing into another fit. He might still be a bit drunk.

Jones makes another quip that Arthur doesn't completely hear. At least he goes to dress himself, finally. He simply grabs some clothes from a laundry basket and throws them on, right in front of them. Does he have no shame? At least he _is_ covering himself. It isn't long before Jones is dressed in almost the same outfit as he had been last night, except this time he is sans bomber jacket and the T-shirt is black. Walking in front of them, he snatches the remote from Matthew (who gives him a scowl of protest but nothing more) and turns off the telly. Sitting on the coffee table like it was just another chair he begins, "The terms."

"Yes," Arthur replies simply.

Matthew demands, "The terms for _what?"_

Has Jones left his own brother in the dark? _How honourable._

"I got a picture, Matt," Jones explains, "and he doesn't want me to release it." The photographer motions to Arthur, as if it isn't obvious who he's talking about. "He's promising me _anything_, just so long as I keep the photo to myself."

"What _anything _could be better than getting us out of this _shithole?"_ Matthew cries, and leaps to his feet. He looks like he wants to shake some sense into his brother, and Arthur doesn't really blame him for it.

"A big break, Matt," says Jones, quietly, like he's almost afraid to say the words. Matthew's face softens, and he sits down again.

"Okay," Matthew sighs. Alfred beams at him.

Arthur splutters, "You want to be an actor? I mean, I can put in a good word for you, but I—"

"Not an _actor,"_ Jones sighs. "Oh, God, no, not an actor!" And he's laughing now, and when he does it's with his entire body, his broad shoulders shaking like an earthquake. The quake dislodges his glasses, though, and he slips them back into place with one expert movement. When he looks back up, his eyes are shining so bright he almost hurts to look at. He's just so _happy._

"Dude, I can't act my way out of a wet paper bag." He's giggling again; why does he do that? "No, man, I wanna be a p_hotographer."_

The word is like nectar to Jones. It slips off of his tongue, a reverent title that he longs for more than anything. Arthur had once done the same with "actor."

"I'm afraid I don't have many connections in the technical aspects of filmmaking," Arthur says carefully, "so I'm not sure—"

"No, no, no." Jones shakes his head vehemently but then focuses intently on Arthur. "I need a subject."

"Excuse me?"

A little thoughtful smile pulls at the corners of Jones's mouth. "You'll come around every few days for, what, two months? We'll talk, and I'll photograph you. That simple." He picks his camera up from its place on the coffee table next to him and waggles it, as if that is supposed to convince the actor.

Arthur, though, is dumbfounded. So is Matthew, who stares at his brother like he has two heads. Or maybe more, based on how wide he's gaping.

Jones is blushing now, disliking such attention. "I can't, like, pay you or, anything," he stammers, "but I'll keep the first picture secret. The one where you're drunk." He swallows thickly and continues, "The ones after that, I'll make up some story about how you agreed to be a model for me."

Arthur can't help but ask, "But why _me?"_

"Because you've got a nice face that could get me noticed."

Arthur can feel heat rushing to his "nice" face, and Jones shakes his head hurriedly. "I'm not trying to make this more awkward than it already is— because fuckin' hell, it is _awkward_ in here— but the cameras love you and I'm interested to see what I can do with you as a subject. That's all." He holds his hands up in over-defensive, mock surrender. "Okay?"

Arthur gets the feeling that Jones isn't about to surrender to anybody.

When no one speaks, Alfred swallows and says, "Those are the terms, dude. Take 'em or leave 'em."

Ah.

_So that's it, then._

At least it isn't a plea for money. Arthur had been scared of that.

"I'm crossing the Rubicon," he whispers, rubbing his eyes.

"Huh?" Alfred says. Arthur almost explains, but then he remembers that he is no longer a history student.

Plus, he is supposed to dislike this man.

_Jonesey wants a model._ It's almost laughable.

But does he really have a choice?

_No,_ Arthur decides. So he holds out his hand. The smile Jones gives him is the biggest one he's ever seen in his life, so huge that it takes up the entire room and threatens to suffocate him.

"I agree to your terms," sighs Arthur.

If possible, the smile grows even more. "Wow, sound a bit more excited," Jones jabs, grinning like the idiot he is, "but good. Awesome." He grips Arthur's hand, shaking it enthusiastically. "Dude, you will _not_ regret it."

Arthur tries not to scowl _too_ much. "I'm sure."

**A/N: Aaaaand there's chapter two. My Arthur is always a bit of a dick, but that just makes him more fun to write! As you all know, feedback is very much appreciated, so don't be shy to click that review button.**

**Plus, I want to thank everyone just jumping aboard for reading, and all the people who have left such kind reviews so far. You guys are the best, and you make writing this story such a joy. You'll most likely meet Francis, Roderich, and Elizaveta in the next chapter, so I hope to see you again!**


	3. Chapter 3

Perfection is important to Roderich Edelstein. His dark brown hair is always sculpted and curled to perfection; his clothes are always classy; his glasses are never askew and practically glowing with cleanliness. At best, he is obsessive-compulsive.

At worst, he is a half-crazed maniac bent on perfection.

Not only is he a world renowned director, but he is also an award winning composer (a fact he takes joy in constantly reminding other people of). As a result of this, he has refused to entrust the soundtrack of the film to anyone else but himself.

That is why he is currently holed up in his and Elizaveta's hotel room, scribbling sheet music furiously, instead of directing his film.

"Why couldn't he just have someone _else_ compose?" Arthur sighs, trying to warm his hands on his small thermos of white-wine-in-an-opaque-container-to-keep-up-appearances. "He's already the director. Have him leave it to someone else."

Elizaveta rolls her eyes. "Arthur, do you even _know_ Roderich?"

"I know him well enough that he will be a ticking time bomb of stress in at least a week."

"He isn't already?" sighs Francis, acting put-upon.

Liz grins, green eyes twinkling. "It _is_ pretty much his constant state of being." She may love Roderich with all her heart, but she isn't above taunting him mercilessly.

They should have been filming today, but according to Liz, Roderich is probably still hunched over his piano, scribbling out the film's score. "When he gets on a kick," she complains, "there is absolutely no stopping him."

"It is very difficult to complete a film with no director, however." Francis fiddles with the lid of his Starbucks cup, which contains what he likes to call "the filthy American swill." He drinks it anyway, of course, but that doesn't matter.

A whole chunk of Boston Common had been set apart for the day, too; it was a waste of money and time if Roderich never showed. Which looked like a distinct possibility, as Francis, Elizaveta, and Arthur had been sitting on this bench for an hour already, trying to ignore gawkers.

The crew members wander around, stopping sometimes to chat with the three actors; the makeup team had gone for breakfast and never came back. They had already been in Boston for a month and they had barely even begun shooting.

As good as this film was bound to be, they would be here much too long if their director kept skipping filming like a high school stoner cutting algebra. Arthur says so, and Elizaveta laughs again.

"I wouldn't peg him as the _stoner_ type," she laughs, loud and bright, "but the analogy works."

The three fall back into a friendly silence. Arthur is feeling nice and warm, sandwiched between his two friends (rather, one friend and whatever he can call Francis), despite what is bound to be a horrid winter. It's only September, and already the temperature is dipping into levels below freezing. From what he's learned from locals, this isn't even normal in New England.

In London, it's mostly a wet chill, not an early frost bites at your face like a hungry animal.

Arthur misses London.

Plus, he still hasn't quite recovered from his half-forgotten midnight stumbling to a certain American paparazzo's flat. A day later and his body is still holding on to the remnants of a sick, sick hangover.

Arthur had gotten home (well, back to the ritzy hotel downtown he got stuck in during filming) with the help of a suddenly very friendly Matthew, who had been off to work anyway and drove him in his cab. Plus, he had only overcharged Arthur a little.

Then it was a day of vomiting and a sensation reminiscent of having one's head being pried open with a rusty crowbar.

When he had woken up the next morning, he could open his eyes into the light without the feeling of being stabbed through the eye with a penknife. He dressed in something simple and stylish, which is, today, an annoyingly (but purposefully) disheveled white button-down shirt beneath a slim, pale green sweater vest.

All of his clothes are like that nowadays; Arthur hates how _rumpled _he looks, but his stylist Feliks is always telling him that he _needs to, like, keep up with the fashion!_

But Arthur constantly has to fight the urge to button his cuffs, to smooth out the wrinkles in the vest. _I looks like a homeless man._

Then again, if he really did look like a homeless man, he would be one wearing an extremely expensive one-of-a-kind outfit straight from the designer.

_But that is very much beside the point._

He's getting a nice buzz from the wine, at least. He tries not to feel too bad about the fact that it's nine in the morning.

A girl who has been lurking around behind the cameras for while glances at Arthur hopefully. He throws her a wink; she blushes furiously and scurries away, squealing to a girlfriend a few feet away, who had obviously captured a picture of the wink and is now squealing as well.

"Women? Hardly your area, Arthur," Francis snorts.

Arthur punches him in the shoulder, not even trying to be gentle. "No, Francis, I'm just like you. Remember what you said to me once?" He straightens up, leans forward plaintively, gestures with a wide seep of one hand (careful not to smack Elizaveta with his thermos) and clutches at his heart with the other, while exclaiming in his best bad French accent: "Ah love not for ze _body,_ _mon cher,_ but ze _'eart!"_

Elizaveta cackles wildly; Francis gives his fellow actor a filthy look. "Yes, you are very like me, Arthur." He seems to debate with himself for a moment before he adds, "Your love of wine, however, seems to have surpassed my own."

Arthur's laughter is cut short, and he draws his arms back in, slouching back against the bench. "Shut up."

Francis rolls his eyes and sips daintily at his coffee, refusing to meet Arthur's glare.

Elizaveta, however, pleads for contact. "Arthur, it is nine AM."

Arthur gives her the most overly sincere smile he can manage. "I am well aware," he bites, but doesn't drink any more. Not while these two are around, anyway.

Nothing more is said, but awkwardness has dripped into the companionable silence, diluting it, making it thicker than it should be. Elizaveta stands, making her excuses, and gives a meaningful look to Francis (a bit _too_ meaningful for Arthur's tastes) before taking off. She's holding her mobile with a look of purpose— probably to call Roderich and to try and get his sorry arse over here.

Francis immediately turns to Arthur and raises an eyebrow. Arthur shimmies away, even though he knows he can't escape an interrogation.

"I have known you for each and every year of your sorry little life," Francis states. It's not even an insult, coming from him.

"You have," Arthur agrees, warily.

"Where were you yesterday, Arthur?"

Arthur raises his hands to smooth his eyebrows, but then realizes that Francis is smirking at him and lowers them. "Home."

"Not likely. You, _mon ami,_ are a terrible liar."

Arthur glowers at him.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"Not likely," echoes Arthur, picking at his fingernails.

"You stumbled out of the bar and then disappeared. I was fraught with worry, of course," Francis says haughtily, sweeping his long blonde hair away from him face with one practiced flick. "You worried all of us."

"Roderich wasn't worried."

Francis represses a smile. "He was worried about the film, and was in turn worried about you."

Arthur huffs, "I figured as much."

"So where did you end up?"

"You're not going to stop pestering me about it until I tell you?"

"Well, to put it simply…" Francis smiles. "No."

Arthur rubs his eyes tiredly. He feels like he should be better at sleeping. Isn't that supposed to be an instinct, an intrinsic human value? Sleep, the need for rest, something that every human experiences… and Arthur is _bad_ at it.

"I was dragged to a strange flat by an obnoxious paparazzo with a hero complex and his evil Canadian brother. Then, the aforementioned obnoxious paparazzo snapped a rather unflattering picture of me while I was drunk out of my mind and now I have to go back there for two months just so he can take pictures of me for some gallery shit he wants to do. If I do that, then he won't release the picture he took of my smashed self."

Francis blinks at him.

Again.

And again.

One more time, before he hisses, _"What?"_

"Mm."

"…_what?"_

"You heard me."

"He blackmailed you!"

"No, I _offered," _Arthur groans."What else was I supposed to do?"

"I… I don't know, Arthur." Francis releases the breath he had been holding and slumps backwards and laughs without humor. "You, my friend, are screwed."

"Piss off," mumbles Arthur, but halfheartedly.

"What is his name?"

"Alfred _Franklin_ Jones." He spits out the second name like poison.

"You even learnt his middle name?"

"I didn't _ask_ for it, pervert."

"Why are you calling me a pervert? I have not said anything." An awful little smile is dancing on his lips, against the rim of his cup.

"Oh, but you _insinuated."_

"I have done no such thing." Francis pretends to be offended, and throws his now-empty paper cup into the trash bin beside the bench.

One of the cameramen is lounging around, smoking, and Arthur is a bit jealous. Why does he feel like he needs a cigarette so much lately? He had quit almost five years ago, when he realized that the whole practice was just probably giving him cancer instead of making him look cool.

Arthur supposes that it would be a better addiction than the one to the wine still sitting in his hand, but it would be much less effective.

There is the _click, click_ of heels pounding on the pavement. The owner of those heels is Elizaveta Héderváry, who is striding with such fury that Arthur is surprised that the force of her step hasn't torn holes in the ground; she's wringing in her hands the white kerchief she had been wearing over her hair. Her screamed obscenities draw the attention of the crew and tourists alike. She's screaming something about how if only she could get _my hands on say, a frying pan, and whack a son of a bitch over the head with it!_

Upon her sudden return, Elizaveta rips Arthur's thermos out of his hand, pulls off the lid, and splashes its contents into his face.

"What the—" Arthur splutters, wine dripping down his front, but then sees the look on Liz's face and thinks better of continuing.

She's _angry. _Enraged. Livid. So frightening that Arthur's mind fails to come up with any more synonyms. Her shoulders are tense, shaking, her long chestnut-brown hair puckering out of its ponytail holder like she's been pulling at it.

"Elizaveta," Francis begins carefully. "Are you… well?"

"N o," she growls. "No, no, no, no, I am not _well!" _She throws her hands ito the air, scaring away the usually unfazed pigeons nearby. "You can't _deal _with him. You absolutely _cannot_ deal with him!"

"Eliz—"

"I called him. He said he's not coming. He said that he'll need at least three more days to finish the piece for the _first scene._ I will murder him. Violently. I will murder him and then hire a necromancer to bring him back to life so I can do it _again!"_

Francis stands and grips her shoulders and whispers little comforts; Arthur licks at his lips petulantly, which are still dripping with the wasted wine. He can at least prevent _some_ from being wasted. "What Roderich is doing is heinous, Liz, but you didn't have to take it out on _me."_

"Yes I _did!"_ she rages. "You shouldn't be drinking at _nine in the morning. _It is ridiculous. It is so fucking ridiculous! You are, _somehow,_ even more ridiculous than goddamn _Roderich_ because—"

"OH MY GOD THERE HE IS!"

Arthur's eyes widen, but then wine drips in them, so he closes them again. "Fuck."

Elizaveta and Francis ask at the same time: "What?"

"Just go. You don't want to get caught in this."

"In _what?"_ Elizaveta cries.

Arthur sighs, resigned. It's too late.

"ARTHUR, WE LOVE YOU!"

Not even security can hold the horde back. The horrible, devoted horde, with their _uniforms_ declaring their undying love for Arthur Kirkland, a man they don't even know…

Francis and Liz too have been caught. The bench is circled, girls squeal, gasp, _what's wrong are you okay why are you all wet but will you sign whatever I'm shoving in your face? _Digital cameras snap, blinding as well as deafening Arthur, and he grabs Sharpies indiscriminately. He had learned long ago that the only way to stave them off is to give in.

His two companions do not have such experience; as famous as they may be, they are not _Arthur Kirkland, Gentleman of Hollywood. _They are not followed by a group of crazed women that seem to materialize out of nowhere wherever he goes. So he signs and signs and signs until they are sated or until security catches up with them, with Elizaveta and Francis cowering behind him.

When the whole thing is over, they both look a bit pale.

Arthur just dusts himself off and runs a hand through his hair; it's sticky and almost dry from Liz's attack. He could use a good shower.

Francis has reverted to swearing vehemently in French. "I knew it was bad," he chuckles, but doesn't continue, and scratches his stubble absently.

Liz finishes the thought for him. "But not _that_ bad."

Arthur shrugs. "You get used to it."

Francis snorts; he doesn't believe Arthur, but that's no surprise. "A certain level of fame is fatal, you know."

"Why do you think I drink?"

The three tell everyone to go home, that Roderich can't get his sorry arse out of his hotel for one day to direct a fucking film, so they groan and whine but pack up anyway.

Arthur says goodbye to Francis and Elizaveta and heads back to his hotel. He has to be at Jones's flat at five, and he needs some moral support in the form of Shakespeare. And maybe another drink.

**x.**

"What do you know?"

Elizaveta and Francis sit in a little, nondescript, Bohemian-ish café; Elizaveta has a hunk of chocolate cake (which she is busy devouring) and Francis has a croissant (uneaten).

Francis blinks at her languidly. "That is a good question."

Liz rolls her eyes. "What did Arthur tell you?"

"I am afraid it is not my secret to tell." He picks at his hair (dyed blonde, but don't tell anyone), frowning distastefully at whatever he finds. Afternoon sunlight filters drowsily through the windows surrounding them; the café is completely deserted except for the two actors. The baristas didn't recognize them, which was both a relief and a source of jealousy, after they had experienced Arthur's horde that morning.

"Oh, come on. You never intended on keeping it a secret."

Francis smiles a little and pokes at the croissant with a knife. It does not look very good, and he is not even sure _why_ he bought it; perhaps it is because he misses France, but really, he cannot allow himself to be so sentimental. He has never liked America, and he spends altogether too much time there, but he supposes that Paris will be there when he goes back.

"Have you become mute, froggy?"

_Elizaveta is lovely,_ Francis thinks. _That long hair, sparkling green eyes. If only she wasn't Roderich's._ Though he has never been sure of the reason why she and Roderich are still together. Even after the divorce! And because Elizaveta's rage this morning, he is even less sure.

"I am mute. Extremely so."

"You've just proved yourself wrong." She finally notices the lump of chocolate frosting on her face, and she wipes it off hurriedly with a napkin.

"Mm."

Elizaveta gives him a disgusted noise. "Stop acting like a child. Arthur's been getting worse lately, okay? I just want to know if he's… alright."

Francis sighs, "Yes, he has been… ah, _starting_ very early lately."

"So what did he tell you?"

"It has nothing to do with his drinking." He stops but thinks better of it, and adds, "As of yet."

"Spit it out, surrender monkey."

"What insults you are throwing! You are starting to sound like Arthur!"

"_Spit it out."_

Francis chuckles, "You won't believe me."

"How do you know that until you tell me?"

"Fine."

So he tells her. He tells her, word for word, what Arthur had told him that morning on the bench.

She _doesn't _believe him. Francis bites back an "I told you so" as her eyes widen and her fork stops halfway to her face. The last chunk of cake slides off and hits the paper plate with a sick, wet slap.

"So he's being blackmailed into a photo shoot," she says slowly.

Francis almost laughs. He had asked the same thing. "Not blackmailed. He _offered."_

"He's that desperate to keep the secret?"

Francis tries to think of something clever to say, but cannot, so he just says, "Yes, he is."

Elizaveta is silent. She pushes her plate away and stares at some point over Francis's head, eyes distant.

He lets her think.

When she finally resurfaces, she says, "Is he at least cute?"

"Who?"

"Our new friend—" Elizaveta's perfect little mouth curls into a smile— "Alfred Franklin Jones."

Francis blinks, taken aback.

Then he laughs.

He laughs until his stomach hurts and tears form in the corners of his eyes. "I do hope so," he gasps.

**x.**

The hotel room is beautiful, but the view is ugly.

Out of the window that takes up an entire wall of the suite, Arthur can see nothing but highways and big, ugly buildings. The biggest, ugliest building is, of course, the sports stadium, badly dubbed the Garden; it's a massive hulk of concrete and bad architecture during the day, and a disgustingly gaudy eyesore at night. The colored lights projected onto it do nothing to assuage its repulsiveness.

At least Arthur can see the suspension bridge, though, which he rather likes the look of. As they had flown into the city, Francis had been rattling off touristy facts from a brochure the flight attendant had given him. _The Leonard P. Zakim Bridge, the widest cable-stayed bridge in the world, _he had sighed. _Why does America get all the world records?_

Arthur had replied that it is because America has people who actually care about world records, and Francis had laughed and said, _You hate America as much as I do, don't you?_

Francis was wrong. Arthur doesn't hate America. He thinks it is rather lovely place, really, with a very interesting history and legacy.

He just hates _being _there.

He would rather enjoy America from afar, preferably while drinking a cup of tea in his London penthouse and watching the news.

He barely has time for reading these days, so he takes advantage of all the time he gets. There's a glass of some good bourbon beside him, untouched (for once), as he reads _Hamlet_ for the umpteenth time. He prefers it performed (that is how the Bard would have wanted it), but that is no issue, as he has memorized most of it by now and recites aloud as he progresses, for no one's amusement except his own.

"_I am but mad north-north-west,"_ Arthur sighs during Act 2, and he flips the page.

Arthur is very aware that the time is steadily creeping towards five PM. He is very aware that soon he will have to leave the quiet comfort of his gorgeous hotel suite to the freezing confines of Alfred Jones's tiny flat, where he will be subjected to…

What, exactly?

Arthur knows what constitutes a photo shoot; he's done enough of them. People put you in nice clothes (or take you out of your clothes, more likely) and then have you stare at the camera or some hidden point in the distance, looking sultry. He has a feeling, though, that that may not be Jones's style.

A flash of blue eyes and smudged glasses runs through Arthur's head, and he reluctantly abandons _Hamlet._ He's read the first three lines of a soliloquy at least ten times by now, unable to concentrate.

Sighing, he stands and decides that maybe he should probably get changed if he has any intention of going out in public. Though he had long since washed out the remnants of Liz's merciless wine attack, he is currently wearing a bathrobe, and that is no way for an international movie star to dress in public.

He stands and heads to the bedroom and is about to choose something classy to wear when he remembers the Fan Incident that morning, the one Elizaveta and Francis were caught in.

By now, the fangirls might have learned where Arthur is staying. He had learned long ago that those women are capable of _anything._

Smiling a little, Arthur reaches into the very back of the closet; when he finds what he had been looking for, he's full on grinning.

Going for a night on the town, in disguise, every once and a while, is a very healthy practice.

**A/N: And there's chapter three! A barely-proofread one, so don't hate me too much for typos. I'll go back through and fix them soon! Anyway, tell me what you think of the story so far. The review button doesn't bite!**

**Can I just take a minute to thank you guys? Seriously, I never expected this story to get such a wonderful reaction. The reviews are so incredibly kind, and all these story alerts are unprecedented! I give you all one free Internet.**

**You guys are SO awesome, in fact, that I'm writing the next chapter from Al's POV ****(even though I was going to anyway just go along with it guys)****.**

**Note:**** "I am mad but north-north-west" is one of Hamlet's lines from Act 2, Scene 2, when he is assuring Rosencrantz and Guildenstern that he's only crazy **_**sometimes,**_** and he's still sane enough to tell his friends from his enemies.**

**Edit: ****Finally re-proofread this chapter. Most typos/general errors should be all tidied up by now.**


	4. Chapter 4

"Al, he's an actor, not a foreign dignitary."

"A what?"

"Never mind."

Matthew throws his mug at his brother's head, which Alfred dodges artfully. Thankfully, it's made of plastic, so it doesn't shatter; it does, however, dent the wall.

"That's gonna come out of the rent, Matt," Alfred whines, leaning on his broom and planting his unoccupied hand on his hip. He had found a bubblegum pink apron under the sink and was now utilizing it in his quest to Clean Every Inch of the Apartment, his manhood be damned.

He also realized that the hand on his hip wasn't making him look any manlier, so he lets that one rest on the broom handle, too.

Matt says, "Oh, come on. Natalia hasn't come by for the rent in ages."

"Doesn't mean she never will!"

"Al," Matt says pointedly, "if you're so worried about the rent, then _get_ a _job." _He flips a page in his book; _The Master and Margarita. _Some Russian thing. Matt had tried to explain to his brother what it was about, but when he started on religious theories and Faust and Pontius Pilate, Al's head started to hurt and he watched _Saturday Night Live_ instead.

Alfred beams at his brother; Matthew is laying on the couch, all peaceful and happy, so, naturally, Alfred wants to ruin it. He throws his broom javelin-style into his brother's stomach.

"MOTHERFUCKER!" Matt hollers, toppling off the couch. The broom falls to the floor, and so does Alfred, sliding down the wall and laughing himself to pieces.

"I hate you _so much,"_ Matt gasps, pitifully rubbing his belly through his sweatshirt.

Alfred is still cackling too hard to even speak, much less come up with a clever retort.

"I hate you," Matthew sighs, "and stop cleaning." Throwing the broom to the side, he climbs back onto the couch, huddling under his mound of blankets and picking up his book.

"Why?"

"We're sort of past the point of trying to _amaze_ him."

"I'm not trying to amaze anybody," huffs Alfred, picking himself up off the floor. "I'm just… tidying up."

"He's a dick, Al."

"He passed _your_ stupid little tests!"

"Yeah, but that's _because _he's a dick. Us dicks have to stick together."

Alfred gives his brother a look, the one he adopts when something Matt says has been completely and utterly misconstrued.

"Okay," he says slowly, "I did _not _need that image."

Matthew blushes so fast and so brightly that he probably doesn't have any blood left in his feet. "You sick fuck! You know what I meant!"

Alfred flips him off cheerily, and grabs the plastic mug (the one that had started this whole tirade) off of the floor and tosses it into the sink from a few feet away. "Two points!" he bellows, hands in the air.

Alfred doesn't see it, but he can _feel_ Matt roll his eyes. "Hockey is forever superior to basketball."

"Says the kid who _wasn't_ two-time varsity MVP in high school."

"Says the kid who _was_ dating Lauren Krauss while secretly harboring a crush on the point guard."

There is a fragile quiet that Alfred breaks with, "Low blow, Mattie."

"Not my fault you're an incorrigible fag, Al."

Adopting his best lisp and raising his voice at least an octave, Alfred sighs, "You make it sound like a bad thing, darling."

Alfred wins that round, since Matthew is the first to laugh. (Their insults hold no weight, but these arguments are _competitions_ if there ever were any.)

Walking over to the sink and turning on the tap, Alfred begins working on the dishes, which have piled up into quite the mountain, ever since Matt stopped doing them in an effort to get Alfred to help out around the house more.

It had been in vain, of course, since Alfred is so lazy that he eventually just stopped using plates.

But now they're having _company. _Company that is carrying Alfred's hopes and dreams on a silver platter.

The cracked white tile is cold under his bare feet, and it would feel nice if the rest of Alfred wasn't so cold, too. Matthew has stolen all of the blankets and mercilessly left none for his twin.

"You know, Matt," Alfred calls, looking up from a particularly stubborn piece of two-week-old grime on a spoon, "some people say that twins have weird connections."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Like, if I got hurt, you would feel ghost-pain in the same place."

There's a sound of a book's pages flapping as it is knocked mercilessly against an exasperated Canadian's knees. "Where the hell are you going with this?"

"If _I'm_ freezing cold…"

Alfred hears his brother give a skeptical snort. "Al, we are twenty-three years old. If we haven't felt the connection by now, I doubt we ever will."

"You never know!"

"You _could_ just ask me for a blanket. Instead of, you know, being so fucking roundabout."

"Yeah, but would you give me one?"

There is a moment of quiet in which Matthew thinks of something clever to say. He gives up and decides on "No fucking way."

"Fine then. I'll grab my jacket once I'm done with these dishes."

"You do that."

"You're a prick."

"Love you too, Alfie."

_I'm gonna throw his stupid Russian book out the window,_ Alfred thinks cheerily. _And take all his blankets and throw them out, too, and make him go out into the cold to get 'em._

The water isn't _totally_ frigid today, so it feels pretty awesome on Alfred's ice-cube hands, and his dastardly plan is forming so brilliantly that he doesn't notice the sink beginning to overflow.

Matt pads over to the kitchen, the worn rubber soles of his slippers making a _slap, slap_ on the equally worn wood. The mass of blankets over his shoulders make him look like some kind of patchwork Gandalf.

"Al," he says slowly.

Alfred hums at him, not really hearing.

"Al."

"Mm."

"Alfred Franklin Jones."

No answer.

"Al, Pegasus has just flown through our window and has begun to make love to the kitchen table!"

Alfred's head shoots up. _"What?"_

Alfred's head shoots down. "Oh." A large puddle is beginning to grow around his feet.

"That is not Pegasus," he decides.

Matthew reaches over and slams down on the faucet's handle, cutting off the flow of water. "You are the biggest space case on the planet," he says matter-of-factly.

Alfred gives him a crooked little smile. "I can't help it, Matt. The water was _almost_ warm, and I'm j-just… so… c-c-cold!" He exaggerates his shivering, knocking his knees together and rubbing his arms.

A blanket is promptly thrown into his face.

"Thank you, Mattie!" he sings, his speech muffled.

"Go fuck yourself."

"Can do, brother. Just gotta finish these dishes first."

Matt gives a noise of disgust, tells him to dry off the floor, and stalks back over to the couch.

Smiling, Alfred wraps the blanket around himself _(sweet,_ it's the super warn Captain America one) grabs a dishtowel and throws it on the floor, swiping it around with his foot until the tiles are at least sort-of dry.

"Matt, when does your shift start?"

"Half an hour. Why?"

Alfred glances at the clock hanging on the wall and does a quick calculation in his head (the stupid thing is always _exactly _sixteen minutes behind).

It's 4:00 PM, and Kirkland is supposed to be there at 5:00;a little ball of anxiety bursts in his stomach.

"Just wondering."

Alfred hears Matthew try and fail to stifle a snigger. "I don't know why you're putting on such a show for him. You're the one who's got the upper hand."

"Stop saying that!" Alfred groans. "And… and it isn't blackmail or anything. I didn't take the picture because I wanted to sell it."

"But you agreed to his _self-proposed_ blackmail. Is that even a thing? Did I just invent that? Aw, man, I am such a genius."

Alfred sighs, leaves the rest of the dishes to soak and steps bout of the kitchen. His bare feet are grateful for the relative warmth of the wood. "Of course I agreed. Why wouldn't I? Dude, I will never ever get this opportunity again."

Matthew shrugs. He's abandoned his dumb Russian book and is now flipping through the channels before settling on a rerun of _Jeopardy!_. The conversation is officially over, becoming too personal to progress with (Al and Matt don't _do_ personal). Alfred flops down next to him and they scream wrong answers at the TV until Matthew "needs to go make money, unlike a certain ungrateful twin brother."

He bids Alfred farewell with an affectionate, "See ya, dickface." Alfred replies with a loving, "Farewell, Canadian."

"Still not an insult!" Matthew cries, already out the door.

"Keep telling yourself that." And Alfred slams it.

The sound rings out and fades, slowly.

It's really quiet.

He glances at the clock; forty-five minutes left.

Huh.

Forty-five whole minutes.

Well, forty-four.

Alfred moans pitifully and grabs the remote, switching off the TV. The picture is so bad, he can barely make out Trebek's face.

He's already cleaned everything. Twice. The entire place smells like Lysol and hard work.

His camera sits on the coffee table.

Shucking the Captain America blanket (it's suddenly _too_ warm), Alfred tosses it on top of the mound Matthew had left behind, and then pulls off the ridiculous apron. (It even has _frills_. Where the hell did it even come from?) He throws that on the pile, too, and then stows the whole mess away in a corner.

Alfred wonders if it's worth visiting Gilbert, with almost an hour left…

…But hen he kills that thought as quickly as possible, because any visit to Gilbert Beilschmidt's apartment is bound to turn into some sort of unwarranted adventure. The guy has at least five weirdo psychological complexes— all of them probably involving symptoms like _illusions of grandeur_ or _Napoleon_ or _thinks he is the coolest thing since sliced bread._ Alfred has never seen him leave his apartment; he's so pale it's _scary,_ and Alfred knows that it's a genetic thing, but Gilbert may be the first person in the world to ever _turn_ albino.

Plus, the guy has never worked an hour in his life. His "little" brother (Al has seen pictures, Ludwig sure as hell isn't _little)_ is some a rich war historian in Germany and he pays for the apartment. Alfred never understood why Gilbert chooses to stay in the shitty little place, if his brother would pay for anything to keep Gil out of trouble. Why wouldn't he move to a nicer place? But Beilschmidt really doesn't need more than his video games and a good couch to be happy.

Well, maybe he needs a bit more than that ( like mental help, maybe). When he's not in love with himself, he's in love with the actress Elizaveta Héderváry. A big, sloppy, disgusting middle-school crush times one thousand. There are posters, cardboard cutouts, framed movie tickets from every single one of her films since 1992, cluttering his apartment, every wall a desperate shrine to a woman he will never meet.

Alfred suddenly realizes what a loser he is.

_All I can do now,_ he supposes, is sit and wait.

Sit.

And wait.

Which he does successfully for nine and a half seconds.

Grabbing his camera from the coffee table and throwing the strap over his neck, he shoves the table out of the way so it stands at the end of his mattress.

Now it's just the couch, facing the TV. Then he grabs a chair, rickety and old and wooden, from the kitchen and places it so it stands across from the couch, too.

Alfred can't hold back a smile. He's missed this— the feeling of _making_ something.

There's half an hour to go and a knock at the door.

_Stupid Gilbert, coming by now! _Alfred rages._ Of all times!_

(Of course, Gilbert isn't really aware of what Matt would call "the gravity of the situation." So he really shouldn't be blamed, but by God Alfred is going to blame him anyway.)

He stomps over to the door, wrenches it open, and is about to shout something nasty involving the words "stupid fucking Kraut," when he rather abruptly realizes that the man in the hall is not, in fact, Gilbert Beilschmidt.

He's got a swaying, lazy, punk-y kind of look about him; shaggy hair that hangs a bit too much in his face, a backpack swung over one shoulder, sort-of-tight but well-ironed slacks and a blazer that was probably black once. Underneath it, an ancient-looking T-shirt with a target on it— but no, it isn't a target, is it? It's that that circle thing England put on their planes during World War II. The black type over it screams THE WHO.

A fucking _mod rocker_ is standing at his door.

Swallowing his shout, his voice cracking (god_damn,_ he's not fifteen years old anymore, why does this keep happening?), Alfred asks, "Can I help you?"

The man draws his hand roughly through his hair, drawing the curls back from his face, and suddenly it's all green eyes and thick eyebrows. He huffs, "I thought I was helping _you."_

It is, of course, Arthur Kirkland.

He hadn't even _recognized_ him. He knows why, now; suddenly, there's a total change in character. Without his fake slouch, and even in clothes that went out of fashion 50 years ago and hair all over the place, he looks… refined.His shoulders are drawn back, held taut like a crossbow, an angry spark in his eyes and a retort on the tip of his tongue.

And all Alfred can think is that he's a successful actor for a reason, if he can become totally unrecognizable with a change of clothes and demeanor.

"What, a man can't go out in disguise every once and a while without being interrogated?" he spits.

Alfred's brain just keeps making indistinct comments on the absurdity of this situation. He might have said, "Well, _no,"_ but he can't quite remember later.

There's a low growl of "Are you going to let me in or not?", and Alfred is drawn back to Earth. He's all Arthur again, English assholery and everything.

Alfred moves aside dumbly. Wow, when Kirkland had been a dick yesterday… he had thought it was just the hangover talking.

Closing the door carefully, Alfred turns to see his guest silently memorizing the apartment. Memorizing, categorizing, allegorizing… lots of other –izings.

"You're early," he says aimlessly.

"I tend to be. Is that a problem?"

"No! No, it's fine. I guess I was ready anyway. Ha."

"Ha, indeed." Kirkland is stony-faced.

"Want a drink or something?"

Arthur lets out a blustery sigh. "No. I just need to get changed." He's still staring at the wall, refusing to look at Alfred.

"Why not?"

He scoffs. "I can't get _photographed _in this."

"Geez, man. Do you walk around in disguise _all_ the time?"

He turns around to glare. "Only when I don't want to be recognized."

"…Oh." Arthur's glower really leaves no room for comment; well, except that a question pops into Alfred's head a moment later, and he voices it rather timidly: "Is that just part of your disguise?"

Kirkland is an arm's length away from the wrong door. He'll release the owls if he opens it. "What?"

"Do you only wear that when you don't want to be recognized?"

Kirkland blinks for a second, as if he doesn't even believe what he's just been asked. Rather embarrassedly, he says, "Well. I mean! It's not a _disguise, _really, it's just… my clothes. If I weren't forced to wear atrocious shit by Feliks—" a blank look from Alfred— "my stylist, that is. I would, well. Wear this."

"Don't change, please."

The actor's face contorts, and Alfred wonders if they edit his eyebrows or something in the movies, because they are _way_ bigger in real life.

"I am _not_ going to be photographed for a project that will potentially go public in _this,_ not with my reputation to—"

"It fits you better than, like, a suit or something." He hurriedly adds, "Fits your personality, I mean. Because, after yesterday, let's be honest. I know you're no gentleman."

Alfred knows he's being just as much of a dick as Kirkland but he really doesn't care, because he's got an ARTISITC VISION. He will not let anyone fuck with his ARTISTIC VISION, and if that ARTISITC VISION includes his subject wearing a Who T-shirt then by _God_ his subject will wear a Who T-shirt.

And he will _like it._

At Arthur's offended look, Alfred adds some simper-y words like "C'mon!" and "please" and only a slight mention of the fact that he still has the picture he took of Arthur while drunk and, if he doesn't want to cooperate if he doesn't have to, but _really…_

Alfred tries not to feel _too_ guilty.

_I mean. We're really different, but we're just two people, right? Just two guys, talking and taking pictures._

_It's just that one of the guys happens to be a movie star that the other resents for his success._

_No biggie._

Kirkland, obviously furious and trying not to say anything snide, gives up and throws his bag to the floor. It lands neatly against the back of the couch.

"Where am I posing?" he asks, through gritted teeth.

Alfred surfaces from one of his rare philosophical musings; the train of thought is broken and won't be remembered until later, when he is trying to sleep (they will prevent him from sleeping).

Alfred shakes his head. "You're not." He makes a vague motion towards the couch.

The actor _almost _says something, his mouth is forming the first syllable of what is most likely an insult, and he's all drawn up like a rope gripped tight on two ends— but then he goes slack again, the rope dropped, and throws himself over the back of the sofa with as little grace as Alfred has come to expect. Where's his reputation for polish, for poise, for clean, light witticisms?

Alfred, unlike his strange guest, walks over slowly and sits carefully in his chair, gingerly putting to hands around his camera. Not enough so Arthur would notice him at the ready, of course; he quietly pushes the ON button and watches Arthur while Arthur watches him in turn.

There is a very terrible silence, and excitement blooms almost unpleasantly in Alfred's chest.

_Here we go._

"You like the Who."

"Hm?" Kirkland whips back towards him, as if he's forgotten where he is. He has a sort of scary grimace on his face, the same expression a troll under a bridge in fairy tales would have.

Alfred snaps a picture.

Kirkland, blinking from the flash, sputters, "What the hell?" and Alfred photographs that, too.

Arthur's jaw drops, realizing _(snap)_ and he sighs in utter contempt _(snap)._ The glare that follows is also captured.

"You like the Who," Alfred repeats, and before Kirkland can say something, he continues, "Not really what people would expect you to listen to."

Alfred is rewarded, for his valiant efforts, with a grimace.

"Not just the Who," breathes the actor. "Lots of bands, really. The Sex Pistols are high up on the list. As a rule, though, 'gentlemen' do not usually promote 'Anarchy in the UK.' As it were."

Alfred laughs. "Dude, you even manage to make punk sound classy."

Kirkland doesn't. "And you manage to make the most simple of sentences sound vulgar."

_If he really thinks that petty insults will be even a tiny bit offensive, he needs to spend a day with Matthew._

(But still, who corrects somebody's grammar when you've just met them? What an ass.)

"I think of it as a natural talent," Alfred replies airily.

"Mr. Jones—"

_"Woah,_ man. Stop right there." Kirkland tilts his head a little without realizing it, like a confused dog, and there's another _snap_ and now the image is permanent. (Alfred has some mercy and doesn't photograph the scowl that follows.) "You are _not _calling me Mr. Jones."

"Alfred, then."

"Nobody calls me Alfred except my mother."

"Alfred," the actor says firmly, and it's Alfred's turn to concede.

"As I was _saying,"_ Kirkland continues pointedly, "I am not just a _punk_, though I am sure my image is now solidified in your head as one."

Alfred lets himself relax a bit, and he leans back in his chair, throwing one arm over the back while keeping one hand securely on his camera. "Well, then change my mind." Though he _does_ know the difference between a mod and a punk, thank you very much, he decides not to mention it.

Arthur crosses his legs, resting an ankle on his knee like he does in interviews and sizes Alfred up like a hero in a Western would. "I am not unfamiliar with, oh, let's see…" He counts the groups off with his fingers. "The Stones, the Who, Pink Floyd, Bowie is one of my favorites, can't forget him…"

Alfred hums a few bars from "Changes"— Arthur almost smiles, and Al counts it as progress.

"…And the Beatles, of course, they're legendary even if some of their earlier stuff is nauseatingly… _pop-y."_ He gives a short laugh. "I don't even think that's a word."

Alfred snorts, "I have a hard time believing that you don't have Zeppelin on that list."

"I would have thought that it was a given." He gives a haughty, offended frown.

Alfred smiles. Kirkland's an asshole, and no doubt about it, but good taste in music goes a long way. "I wouldn't have expected it," he repeats in a sigh.

"What, you expected me to listen to _shit?"_ He gives an arrogant sniff and does that eyebrow thing again, smoothing them with the heel of his palm.

Alfred captures it, and Kirkland jumps at the flash, glaring at him.

There is a very long, very bad silence in which they both find something very fascinating to look at through the window.

Alfred asks after a while, "You mind if I smoke?"

"No."

Reaching into the pockets of his loose jeans, Alfred fishes out a pack of cheap cigarettes and his lighter from the other. Shoving it in between his lips, Alfred holds up his little flame, lighting it reverently. "Ah," he breathes, that first delicious wisp of smoke floating from his lungs, tingeing the man in front of him gray.

Too late, Alfred remembers his manners. He asks, "Cigarette?" and holds out the carton, shaking it a little. He hopes he'll say no; cigarettes are damn expensive these days, and God forbid if Alfred has to _cut back._

"Yes," Kirkland says, "but don't give me one."

Alfred tries to not look relieved. "You quit?"

"Five years ago."

"Really? Would've thought the cravings would be gone by now."

Arthur snorts and the corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to give away a bitter joke before he tells it. "Me too."

They laugh, and it immediately sounds weird, laughing _together_ in this too-quiet apartment while Alfred smokes and Kirkland clearly wants to join him.

So Alfred takes a picture. It barely seems to bother Arthur anymore, which is good. He's got to loosen up, if this project is going to work.

"How long you been in Boston?" The question flies out of Al's mouth, along with a cloud of acrid smoke.

"A month." Kirkland sighs, and smoothes his eyebrows again. They really are huge. Like, pitiably huge. (They probably called him Caterpillars in grade school or something.) "I hate it."

"Oh, c'mon," Alfred laughs. "How? It's beautiful here." _Even if it's too motherfucking cold for me to enjoy it._

"Oh, I _agree,"_ he chirps, disgustingly sarcastic. "Your concrete monstrosity of a sports stadium gives me such a lovely, distinctive view every morning and evening."

Alfred rasps incredulously, "You just dissed the Garden?"

"And what if I did?" Arthur raises one of those caterpillars defiantly, crosses his arms and his legs, a nobleman-by-day-rocker-by-night preparing for battle in a Who shirt and blazer.

_Click, _flash.

"You are in Boston, my friend. You do not _diss_ the motherfuckin' TD Garden." He takes a pointed drag. _"Especially_ if you're from out of town."

"You're a native Bostonian, then?"

"Nah, I just learn fast." Alfred grins past his cigarette, and he gets nothing more than another quirked eyebrow.

"Where are you from, then?"

"Connecticut. Lived in LA more recently. I absolutely loved it there, man."

"Why did you leave?"

"Long story."

"Well, I've got nowhere else to go, have I?"

_This man,_ Alfred thinks, _has enough _snark _in his veins to last him a lifetime and then some._ "No, but we're not here to talk about _me."_

"You've got me interested now, God forbid, so too bad. Start talking."

Alfred grinds the cigarette out on the seat of his wooden chair, leaving a black mark that Matt would most likely throttle him for, and immediately lights another. Arthur gives him a dubious look, about the new cigarette or his refusal, Al isn't sure. "It was a road trip from hell, car broke down in Connecticut, now we're stuck in Boston forever. You are fucking _impossible,_ you know that?"

The actor scowls. "I could say the same for you."

"Over-privileged asswipe."

"Lazy idiot."

"You little bitch!"

"If I'm the _little_ bitch, then are you the massive one?"

Alfred can feel his pulse pounding in his wrists. "Limey cocksucker."

"Yankee slut."

Alfred opens his mouth and closes it again, because all he can think or say is, "That _totally_ sounds like a band name."

Something breaks, and God almighty, Arthur— he doesn't exactly smile, but it's not a scowl, either. "You think Yankee Slut will make it big enough to play your ugly fucking Garden?" he says, a little too loudly.

Alfred laughs and replies, "Who can say?"

And he almost forgets to photograph that first genuine look of non-disgust.

**A/N: Here, have some awkward antagonism, just in time for Valentine's Day. How romantic! Remember, don't be shy with that review button; I love feedback, good or bad. If you want to gush, go for it. If you want to write about your wish rip out my eyeballs with a spoon, go for it.**

**Can I just mention really quick how amazing all of you guys are? You make my day every time I see a new review or story alert. My heart goes all a-flutter and I must call for Jeeves to fetch the smelling salts. Really, it is terrible for my health.**

**I'm still debating what to do for the next chapter, but sometime in the near future there will be a meeting with Al and Matt's mother, delving a bit more into their background. Because I have been a shameless tease up until now, and you amazing people strongly deserve some backstories.**

**Thank you so much for reading, my lovelies. Until next time!**


	5. Chapter 5

Another table read.

Another _fucking_ table read.

Every single one of them had objected to it. Every single last one of them, from Arthur himself to the lowliest intern (though Arthur's objections contained considerably more screaming and cursing). And yet here they are, back in Roderich's stupid giant expensive flat, this behemoth of a living space rented out for the sole purpose of housing him for the duration of the shoot, reading this stupid giant script for the thousandth time. Even though they had _already begun filming._

In fact, Arthur had stomped over the day before to (loudly) voice his (profanity-laced) opinions. And Roderich had— he had _scoffed_ at Arthur's outrage. He had _scoffed_ kept playing Chopin. Arthur raged and Roderich played Nocturne No. 9.

And you don't _yell_ when someone is playing Chopin. It's fundamentally wrong. So Arthur left, taking extra care to slam the door, and went home to look over his lines again, the music still ringing in his ears.

"I am not calling it because of you," Roderich had said, in a way that he probably thought was comforting but just came off as haughty. His thick, precise accent, honed to a point after a childhood in Vienna, makes him sound even more pretentious. If that were possible. "Not _just_ you, anyway. None of you are playing your roles to satisfaction. We shall continue to read the script until you read it well enough."

The principle cast is no large group. There's Arthur, sprawled comfortably on an uncomfortable couch, with Francis sitting primly to his right, Antonio Carriedo next to him. And Elizaveta is across the room, next to Roderich, who is on the piano bench.

The screenwriter, a stoic man with blond hair cut unfashionably, is sitting a bit off from everyone else, in his own little bubble of strictly patrolled personal space (when they had first met, Arthur had tried to shake his hand and was almost flipped over the tiny man's shoulder). Vash doesn't talk much and tends to be the mediator in the cast members' (frequent) arguments.

Roderich and Vash have known each other for years upon years, and they hate each other with unbridled vehemence. Arthur doesn't really understand why Roderich decided to take on Vash's script if they despise each other, but it isn't his place to ask, as much as he wants to. The tension between the two reeks of _history,_ a history that Arthur would prefer to avoid, for the sake of his health.

Antonio is pointedly ignoring Arthur. As laid back as he is, the damn Spaniard is one to hold a grudge, even for something that was a _complete_ accident. And all the way back in college! It isn't like Arthur _meant_ to sink Antonio's family yacht. Rum, fireworks, and temptation had been involved. Any man in Arthur's situation would have done the same thing (i.e., light fireworks below decks after breaking a few bottles of very strong alcohol against the wall for shits and giggles, while incredible amounts of said alcohol is pumping through your bloodstream and tampering with that vital thing in your brain called "good judgment").

Antonio still hates him for it. Francis and Antonio, though, are practically inseparable. Arthur can't help but be thankful that both of his enemies are on the same side; no one has ever won a three-front war, after all.

Roderich commences the reading with a clap of his white-gloved hands (who wears gloves anymore? Where would you even buy them?); he sits on his piano bench, perfectly poised next to the massive matte-black instrument he lugs everywhere. Yes, he's that rich; he can pay for penthouses just for movie shoots and overseas shipping for a hundred-year-old grand piano.

Then again, Roderich isn't that much wealthier than Arthur. It's just that Arthur doesn't flaunt it.

Much.

"What I expect from you all today," Roderich enunciates carefully, "is actual effort. Begin at your leisure."

"You make the absolute worst pep talks, Roddy," Antonio says cheerfully.

"If you call me 'Roddy' one more time,Antonio, I will not only pummel you, but I will fire you and personally destroy your already disreputable name."

"Disreputable? I'm wounded!" Antonio grabs at his chest dramatically, flailing his other arm and hitting Francis in the face. (Arthur feels strangely gratified.)

"Good," says Roderich. He opens the script on his lap daintily, pinky up (the bastard)_,_ and says, "Begin."

So they do.

The whole point of the film is that the main character, John, wants to be anyone else but himself. He retreats into his mind; elaborate, whirlwind fantasies make up most of the movie, where John imagines that he is a playwright, a king, a pirate.

When the script was sent to him, Arthur knew he was sold from the first word. He practically ripped the phone off of its cord when he called his agent to scream "_Yes."_

**SCENE I**

**A darkened apartment in Boston, late evening. MADELEINE and JOHN have just had an argument, a bad one. Tables are overturned, a vase is broken and lying in a heap of shards on the floor, the soil within now splattered on the wall and ground into the carpet**_._

Arthur sighs, feels himself slip into that murky space between himself and who he isn't. He's no method actor; Francis says it's because he likes himself too much to give himself up, and that's probably true. So he relies on his ability to not be Arthur Kirkland for only short periods of time.

He straightens up a little, drags his right arm from the back of the couch to his script. He doesn't need it anymore, but he likes to have it open anyway, just in case revisions need to be made. (Or, God forbid, he forgets a line. He would hate to be such a disgrace.)

Elizaveta reads.

**MADELEINE**

John?

**JOHN does not hear her, or he does not want to listen. MADELEINE does not know to differentiate, and if she did, she would not care to.**

Elizaveta's— Madeleine's— faces goes sour, and if this were filming she would stalk off.

**MADELEINE**

I'm going out.

**She leaves, behind her a cold, angry wake. JOHN rouses at the sound of the door slamming, sees that she is gone, and buries his face in his hands.**

"I wasn't always like this," Arthur finally says, in an American accent that he hates but must do anyway, closing his eyes and his script; he likes the way he can hear his voice but doesn't feel attached to it. His next breath rattles into his lungs so satisfyingly in the vacuum of silence, that when he opens his mouth to say the next line he's finally settling into _John_—

"Stop, stop," huffs an exasperated Roderich, and Arthur snaps back to himself. The first thing he feels is anger. Not a pleasant welcome back to his body.

_"Why?"_ he hisses.

Roderich ignores him and turns to Vash. "I don't like the pacing here."

Tensing, the writer spits, "Since when? We've read this scene a thousand times!"

"If you are going to lash out, at least be accurate," he says, straightening his square frames with a huff. "It has been thirty-eight times. Now, I wish that instead of contesting me, you would offer a solution. You are the writer, after all. It _is_ your job, or am I mistaken?"

Elizaveta says sourly, before Vash can retort, "Please, Roderich, have some restraint."

"Dear, if I did not have restraint, my fist would currently be connecting at great speed to Mr. Zwingli's face."

Francis rolls his eyes and mutters something to the tune of "this is getting tiresome," and in a rare show of agreement, Arthur nods.

Francis turns to him, lowering his voice so he won't be heard (Roderich, Vash, and Elizaveta are loud enough that he probably doesn't need to) and murmurs, "Will our film ever be completed, or are we destined to argue at table reads forever?"

"I hope for the former but expect the latter," Arthur grumbles.

"Always so eloquent, even when angry."

"Not always, but thank you. Besides, I'm more tired than angry." He rubs his eyes to demonstrate the point.

"Oh? Did Mr. Jones keep you long?"

"Mr. Jo— oh. No. Only an hour or so." Fuck. He'd forgotten about that.

Francis raises an eyebrow; something smashes in the general area of Roderich and Vash, and they ignore it. Antonio is laughing like a madman and Arthur would prefer not to see why. Getting involved in whatever is going on with the director, the actress, and the writer is a guaranteed voucher for One Free Migraine.

"And how did it go?" Francis asks.

"You are altogether too interested in this," Arthur points out with a grumble.

"It is an interesting situation you find yourself in!" he insists. And Francis pastes on that infuriating little smile he gets when he's going to dangle a piece of information of Arthur's nose, and won't tell him what he has until he's got Arthur begging. They have known each other for a very long time, and Arthur knows that look all too well.

He wishes he didn't.

"It went perfectly fine, Francis."

"Really? And what did you do?"

_What is this, an interrogation? _"He took pictures." Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, chanting various heinous swear words in his head, all maliciously directed at his costar.

_"No, _did he?" Francis gasps, clutching his heart. "I never would have expected! What a turn of events! A _photographer,_ taking _pictures?_ I cannot contain my amazement!"

"How did you even get through acting school? You can't even be believably surprised."

Francis says dryly, "Unless I am most horribly mistaken, the point of sarcasm is to exaggerate, Arthur."

"Whatever."

Francis gives up. Turning to the growing mess that is Elizaveta, Vash, and Roderich, he rather hurriedly stands to intercede. There is a terrible discordant clang from the piano when Roderich falls back to avoid a swing from Elizaveta, who is holding what appears to be the frying pan she had threatened him with two days before.

_That woman,_ Arthur thinks, impressed, _keeps her promises._

"Stop this!" Francis cries. Vash stands off to the side, watching the proceedings sulkily and doing absolutely nothing to intercede.

Antonio rolls his eyes. "We are on a sinking ship," he mutters to Arthur, realizes who he's talking to (and what about), twists his mouth into a frown, and shuts up.

Francis has a gift, and it is a wonderful one. He can quickly, and with ease, smooth out even the most awkward social situations with nothing more than comforting murmurings in French and the subtle calling in of old dues. Soon enough, Roderich, Vash, and Liz are all seated far away from each other, blushing and grudgingly apologizing, reminiscent of children.

"Are we ready to begin again?" Francis asks, the ever-patient Kindergarten teacher (that maybe he should have been, really, he is much too good at this). With embarrassed nods from his colleagues, he flashes a condescending smile and once more takes his seat between Arthur and Antonio.

Roderich clears his throat, too loudly for the thick quiet, and pretends that nothing ever happened. "Let us begin from where we left off," he says.

Arthur sighs and flips his script open; he's lost his place, and he reads until— _ah, there._

It's easier, this time, to lose himself.

**JOHN**

I wasn't always like this.

The words fall off of his tongue slowly and deliberately, and he hopes the American accent doesn't sound too horrifically fake (it's always the one he has the most trouble with). This is the first big monologue, the first _reveal_ into who John is. It is so, so important that Arthur should get this right.

**JOHN**

I wasn't always like this. It's been going on so long that I don't remember how I was before. Madeleine was around before, too, but I don't think she remembers either.

_Deep breath. Thoughts slow, it's just the words now…_

Nobody ever remembers. That's the problem. _I_ remember things. It's easy, when you live in your head.

"You're being too sarcastic, Arthur," Roderich interrupts. "John isn't _sarcastic. _He is broken and beaten-down. You are aware that you are, in fact, playing a downtrodden American and not yourself?"

Arthur bristles. "I am _extremely_ aware, Roderich."

"Then act like it. Continue."

_Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck_. Arthur fights the urge to grind his teeth. He can take criticism, but coming from _Roderich_ it's so barbed, and it stabs you right where you want to be stabbed least. And in Arthur's case, it's his ego. And his acting ability. And—

Okay, so Arthur _can't_ take criticism. He sulks and rages for days if a film of his gets a bad review.

Still, he doesn't deserve such abuse.

He continues anyway, with frequent intercessions of Roderich's or Vash's or whoever's, telling him what he's doing wrong (they couldn't have told him these things at the _first ninety fucking table reads?)_ until the godforsaken first scene is over and they move on to the second, the first fantasy. A dream of John's, based off of a fight for a promotion between John and Antonio's character, Marc. In John's mind, the conflict morphs into combat: a British privateer versus a Spanish pirate, a battle to the death on high seas.

John doesn't get the promotion, and his British privateer-self is sunk. Because what kind of tragedy would it be without that first fall?

(Thank God Arthur gets to stop the American accent for this scene. It is fucking _difficult_ to keep up, and he's sure he's going to have a sore throat from all these weird vowels in the morning.)

_At least everything is going smoothly now,_ thinks Arthur.

They're on scene three when everything goes to hell.

"_Arthur,"_ Roderich hisses for the millionth time, but at this point it is filled with much more venom. "Have you even been _listening, _or—"

"Of course I have!" Arthur has long since abandoned his script in favor of gripping the arm of the expensive couch, teeth clenched. Francis eyes him with bemused concern; Liz is staring, furrow-browed at him, from her seat by the window.

"Then why haven't you improved?" demands Roderich. "Really, Arthur, we cast you in this role for a _reason,_ and if you would like to completely ignore me then you have no reason to be here."

"Roderich," Francis cautions in his strangely parental _I am losing my patience _voice.

Roderich doesn't even recognize that Francis spoke. "Really! I would have thought you, Arthur, of all people, would be able to take criticism. I heard such good things about you! From Francis, from Elizaveta—"

It's Liz this time who warns, _"Roderich—"_

"If you are not going to _listen,_ then you might as well leave, Arthur."

Oh.

_Oh._

_I _am_ listening_, _thank you very much,_ Arthur thinks childishly (but does not say). He does not say that he is _trying_ to improve but really he thinks he's doing a damn fine job because Roderich is the only one who seems to have any complaints.

And Arthur knows he shouldn't be getting so angry, because he hates being the _diva,_ stiff upper lip and all that, but something flies out of his mouth that sounds something like "Then I will."

And he leaves.

He regrets it immediately, but he can't go back in. Not with his pride on the line.

His brain desperately repeats and repeats, _What have you done, what have you done, what have you done, you _bastard_?_

Another part of his brain answers, _Something really thickheaded._

He needs a drink. And a smoke. Goddamn, he hasn't wanted a smoke in five fucking years, why is it now that the cravings come back to haunt him? It doesn't make sense. Then again, what does any more? A simple country boy rocketing to stardom and fame and riches— now look how it's all changed him.

Not for the better, that's for bloody sure.

Maybe he's just not suited to the life. Maybe punk teenagers from England aren't meant to join their school's Drama Club when their well-meaning mothers force them to. Maybe that idiot kid should never have realized that he wants to live and breathe that stage for the rest of his life.

It was his worst decision, wasn't it?

Sure, it got him money and girls but it also got him a dependence on alcohol the size of— of something big. His mind isn't working at full capacity right now. Nothing tends to when you're running away from your director and costars (_like the little coward you are_,_ he can't help but think_) through the streets of Boston, heading to the one place they would never, ever look for you.

He's dragging himself out of one fiery Hell pit and jumping headfirst into an even hotter one.

When he hails a cab rather desperately outside of a museum (one of the art ones that Francis tells him he just _has_ to see), he is very thankful that the cabbie doesn't seem to recognize him; if he does, he says nothing.

Arthur chokes out an address, one he would really prefer not to resort to. But when the shit hits the fan, well, it's like his old dad said: run away where they'll never, ever look for you.

**x.**

Alfred has never been more scared in his entire life.

"Oh my _God,_ Matt, make it_ stop,"_ he whimpers.

_"I can't,"_ he hisses back.

The horrible scraping sound at the door continues. They continue to cower behind the couch like little girls.

A voice, chill and smooth and like iron, rings out from the hallway. "The rent," it breathes. "The rent."

"N-Natalia, w-we'll— we'll have it by Monday—"

Matthew is cut off by the sound of a key in the door. _"The rent."_

Alfred fights an urge to crumple into the fetal position and fails. "Since when does she have a key?"

"She's the landlord, fuckass! Of course she has a key!"

"I believe the correct term is land_lady,_ Matthew." He may be scared for his life, but there is no time when it is unfit to torture his brother.

Mattie, predictably, doesn't agree. _"Now is not the time, Alfred."_

The door swings open, and they stop breathing. Everything is quiet, like ice, cold and very, very breakable.

It doesn't break, though. It _melts,_ it melts as Natalia sweeps forward, her dress rustling and her soft shoes slipping across the floor, the very silence a threat against their existence.

Very quietly, and very gracefully, she lifts her skirts (she wears the same thing every day, that goddamn blue dress) and squats down to be at eye level with Alfred. _Right at eye level,_ and damn him if he admits it but it's terrifying.

"The rent," she says softly, and she tilts her head a little like one of those weird kids in horror movies, the possessed ones with the wide eyes and the perfect hair. Doll-children. Natalia is a doll, a horrible overgrown doll in her blue dress and apron, headband and long, meticulously smooth white-blond hair.

Alfred finds that he has suddenly lost the ability to speak English. Is he suddenly remembering French from those classes in grade school or something? Whatever it is, the stuff coming out of his mouth doesn't make any sense.

Matt doesn't seem to be much better. "Yes, yes, Natalia, we're— I'm— I'm getting, um, um, paid! Yes, paid today, you see and _oh god."_

Natalia swings around to press her emotionless face close to Matthew's— their noses are _almost_ touching, Jesus _Christ_. Alfred can almost imagine the horror, and he's glad that it's his brother who's enduring it and not himself. Selfish? Yes. But Alfred's always been good at self-preservation.

"You will give me the rent by Friday," Natalia breathes, "yes?"

Matthew can only nod.

The monster shaped like a woman nods back, looking sated. She stands and Matthew slumps over, breathing hard like he'd just run a mile.

"Natalia! Nat!"

Feet pound up the stairs, and Alfred and Matt jump pitifully at the noise. The voice keeps crying the landlady's name. "Nat! Come on, don't be too harsh on them. Nat—"

Natalia is looking up expectantly now. Alfred can hear someone bound in, but, well, his legs are still trembling a little and he doubts that he can stand up and have a look to see who the latest guest is.

He doesn't have to, though, because she runs over and grabs Natalia by the shoulders, now standing in full view. Matt is staring at her, entranced, and it takes Alfred a second to figure out why. She's pretty, with short hair the same color as Natalia's and a small, pretty face. She's all pale and porcelain like the landlady, but rounder and less… creepy? Cute, but none of those are reasons for Matt's jaw to be hanging open like that.

And then it hits him. The girl's wearing a tight T-shirt, and Alfred feels stupid for taking so long to realize it. It's the boobs_. The boobs that probably have their own zip code, _he thinks, amazed. Alfred's fascination is purely scientific, but if Matt looks like he's on the verge of a _really_ awkward boner. He pinches Matt's arm to get him to stop staring.

"Nat, please," the newcomer sighs. "Be gentle!"

"I was," Natalia protests, ever-so-calm. "I didn't bring the knife this time."

The woman whips around to face Alfred and Matt, who are still curled up behind the couch, shaking. It doesn't faze her at all— maybe she's used to the effect Natalia has on people. They seem to have known each other for a long time, and now that Alfred thinks about it, they could be sisters or something.

Natalia tries to say "Kat," but is interrupted.

"She brings a _knife?" _the new girl, Kat, asks incredulously.

"Never to us," Alfred tries to clarify, but it ends in a squeak when Natalia claps her eyes on him again. She's not even that much older than him, but she seems like she's been alive forever. Like a mummy. Like that one mummy, in that one movie that Matt dared him to watch when they were thirteen and Alfred didn't (couldn't) sleep for six months afterwards. "But Gilbert downstairs hasn't. Ahem. Been so lucky," he finishes lamely.

Natalia's eyes narrow at him, and Alfred contemplates pulling his shirt over his head in an attempt to hide. (Matthew, on the other hand, is still mesmerized by Kat's chest and doesn't seem to mind Natalia's presence anymore.)

But Kat just _sighs_ in that sitcom way that should be followed by a drawn out _"Natalia-a-a-a-a-a."_ Thankfully, it isn't, since that would have been really weird.

"I'm sorry that my sister is so batshit," Kat apologizes. "I'm Katyusha, but you can call me Kat. I don't expect you to remember the full one, since nobody does."

She smiles and offers a hand to Al, and then Matt, and helps them to stand. It surprises Alfred that she's so small— she's the type of person who _seems_ tall, even if she's not. Sturdy. Al likes her already.

Matt likes her, too, though for different reasons. The smile she gives him makes him melt like ice cream on a summer sidewalk.

"I'm Matthew," he manages to say, eventually, when he's gotten his breath back. "And you're… Katyusha. I'll, um, remember."

Alfred stifles a laugh. His brother is so nervous that his Canadian is showing.

Katyusha's smile grows even wider. "Sure." She grabs his hand and shakes it, even when he didn't offer. _And_ she holds her grip longer than she needs to. "I always liked the name Matthew. My mother is from Ukraine, you know. She'd call you Matvey."

Matt throws her a crooked smile. "It's more interesting than plain old Matthew."

"I don't think it's plain!" she laughs.

Alfred wonders when the happy announcement will be.

Kat eventually releases Matt's hand, gives him her number (which he fumblingly saves to his phone), and drags her sister out. Natalia shouts threats at them as they go, leaving the brothers bewildered, flustered, and very slightly exhausted.

Too many emotions for nine AM.

Alfred is the one to speak first, using the worst impression of his brother he can muster. "I'll, uh, herpy derpy derp, remember, eh?" he squeaks, waving his arms.

Matt rewards him with a punch, but it's halfhearted, because he's also trying to hide the fact that he's blushing up a storm. "I don't say _eh!_ I'm from _Montreal!"_

"Matvey, Matvey!"

"Shut _up."_

"You know what? You should've been honest with her. You should've been like, 'Kat, _baby, _your _rack_ is _out_ of this _world.'"_

Matthew scoffs. "This is why you're stuck with dicks instead of chicks."

"How would you even hug her?" Alfred asks incredulously. "The boobs would be, like, all squished between you. You'd be a boob sandwich."

"That's kinda the point."

"They are sacks of fat that spew milk."

Grimacing, Matthew says, "Well, they're not hot when you put it _that_ way."

Al grins dazzlingly at his brother. "Come to the gay side, Matthew. We'll bake sparkly rainbow cookies for you."

"You can't cook for shit. I'll stick with the boobs, thanks." He grabs his keys off the floor (they had fallen out of his hoodie when they were cowering) and strides towards the still-open door. "Come on, Mom will be pissed if we're late."

Throwing a blustery sigh, Alfred whines, "Why do we care, again?"

Matt gives his brother a sympathetic glance as they pound down the stairs. "Because she's our mother."

"Yeah, well, our mother is a grade A bitch."

"True. But that makes you the son of a bitch."

"You twist my words, Williams."

"Doesn't take much effort to make you sound stupid, Jones."

They're already hopping into Matt's cab (hijacked for the day— Matt's boss, Mr. Karpusi, is back on Valium and snoozing away the world, making his taxis accessible for more personal sojourns) when Alfred remembers that he and Matt are twins, and that if he himself is a son of a bitch, that makes Matt a son of a bitch, too. But it's too late for the comeback _now,_ so he just hops into the passenger seat with minimal grumbling. Matt looks rather triumphant as he buckles his own seatbelt, and is about to turn the key when—

The back passenger door opens. "Room for one more?"

"Sorry, man, not on duty, you have to—" Matt almost says.

It's Kirkland.

Of _course_ it's Kirkland. Wouldn't it be, though? _Wouldn't it fucking be?_ Alfred can't help but think. First, he almost gets murdered by a psycho landlady. Then his brother gets hit on by the psycho landlady's giant-boobed sister. And now the actor he's sort of not really technically blackmailing is climbing into the back of his brother's cab, his arrival totally unannounced, when they're about to leave for Connecticut.

"Where are you headed?" the actor asks, too cheerily and seemingly unfazed by the perplexed brothers in the front seat.

"Connecticut," Alfred says hopelessly.

"Wonderful! Let's go." He stretches out across the seat like, like he _owns _it, dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and snakeskin shoes catching the sun through the window. It's weird, seeing him dressed… fashionably. There's a weird disconnect now in Alfred's brain since he's seen what the guy really wears, and Kirkland seems more suited to a Who shirt or, like, a sweater vest.

Definitely not _snakeskin shoes._

Alfred can't do anything but weakly protest. "You weren't even supposed to come by today, so…?"

"I'm running away from my director."

He is _way too fucking calm_ about this.

Matthew pipes up now, taking over for (a very relieved) Alfred. "They won't look for you here?"

"Not in Connecticut, they won't!"

Oh _God_, he even takes out a _nail file_. He actually starts _filing his nails_. Right there on the backseat. While talking to them, concentrating on his cuticles instead of the people he's intruding on. Who _does_ that? Who really does that, besides cheesy movie villains named something like Doctor Malevolence?

Unless he's occupying his hands in the hope that Alfred won't see them shaking.

Which Alfred does, of course.

"That's why it would be great, if you would, you know. Start driving." Arthur drags the file quickly and efficiently over the crest of a nail, a thin trail of dust forming along the ridge. By the look of it, he gets manicures, so he doesn't really need the file at all.

God, he even gets _manicures_.

He had seemed human yesterday. Behind Alfred's camera, Arthur Kirkland had seemed human.

Matt has to hold Alfred back from punching this presumptuous fucker in the _balls._

"I don't even have my camera!" he finds himself growling. "You don't even like me! Why do you run away to _me?"_

Arthur looks up from his nails, and it's that stupid movie star face that says in that stupid movie star voice, "It's pre_cisely_ because I don't like you. They won't look for me with you."

They look at each other for a long time. Their eyes have a conversation.

_There's no chance of getting rid of you, is there?_

Arthur blinks. _No chance in hell._

Alfred feels sick and the car hasn't even rolled out. "Matt, start the car," he sighs. "I'm gonna go grab my camera."

He pretends not to see the look of triumph on Kirkland's face.

Kirkland's stupid face.

Kirkland's stupid ugly face.

Kirkland's stupid ugly butt face.

He consoles himself with third-grade insults all the way to Worcester.

**A/N: I… I don't even.**

**I'm just going to scream and flail wildly about the feedback on this dumb little story, because it makes me happy to the point of incoherence. You guys are the absolute best. As always, I subsist upon feedback, and without it I will waste away into nothingness. (I won't. But reviews are still nice, good or bad.)**

**Eyebox: Matt left Montreal before he learned to drive. Plus, the chapter was from Al's perspective, so he wouldn't know about the traffic there. Sorry if that wasn't clear! In the next chapter, there will be some of that promised backstory, which will hopefully lift some of the fog.**

**(Damn, these author's notes keep getting longer and longer.)**


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur decides that the (inevitable) biopic made to chronicle his life will be titled _Stony Silences: The Awkward Arthur Kirkland Story._

This scene would be its coup de grâce.

_I wonder who would play me. Someone suitably handsome, I would hope,_ he thinks, and it's only half a joke.

He's still shaking.

Arthur is going to die at the white-gloved hands of Roderich Edelstein. No, scratch that. His _career_ is going to die at the hands of Roderich Edelstein. Which will be ten times more humiliating.

As Arthur had learned after a very clipped response from Jones (he's still angry about the whole hi-I'm jumping-into-your-trip-you-have-no-say-in-the-matter incident; it was a terrible thing to do, but _really,_ he's here now and there's nothing Jones can do about it, he can stop bitching), they're heading out to Connecticut to visit the twins' mother. Whom Alfred apparently despises, based on his incredible amounts of moaning and groaning.

The complaints end, however, when Matthew is cut off at an exit and begins to swear wildly.

"Dude!" Alfred laughs, gripping his brother's arm.

_"Don't touch me while I'm driving!"_

(Arthur wonders if they have ever had a civil conversation. Ever.)

"I'm just trying to calm you down!"

"I _cannot_ calm down when you are _holyshitholyshitholyshit—"_

Arthur hadn't known he was religious until he started praying like hell. A wide swerve and a near smash into a guard rail marks the first hour of their trip.

Alfred is practically hyperventilating, holding onto that stupid little handle on the ceiling. "Matt, you drive for a _living!"_ he cries breathlessly.

"Yeah, but usually my idiot brother isn't with me on the job to make me crash into the fucking rail—"

"Now it's my fault?"

"Since when _hasn't_ it been your fault? You wouldn't let go!"

"I am going to _kill you._"

"Just try!"

Well, fuck Arthur if he was going to have another near-death experience within two minutes of the last one. "Shut _up,"_ he says, as politely as possible.

Alfred startles, like he's forgotten Arthur was there. "You've got no say in this," he says.

Arthur is taken aback, though he has no right to be. "I would simply rather not die." He adds with a snort, "Now now, anyway. Roderich would feel slighted if he didn't snuff me himself."

Blinking, Alfred asks, "Roderich?"

"Oh. He's the director I'm running away from."

Matthew eyes him in the rearview mirror. "Roderich," he ponders, turning the name over in his mouth. "Roderich, as in Roderich Edelstein?"

"Yes." Arthur narrows his eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"The one who's with Elizaveta Héderváry?"

Arthur nods, wondering vaguely where all of this is going.

"Since when are you into celebrities, Matt?" insinuates Alfred. Arthur can practically see him cataloguing future insults about it.

Matthew, though, shakes his head. His reflection in the windshield is wearing a knowing smile. "She's the actress Gil is obsessed with."

The photographer's mouth falls open, and his eyes widen in realization. _"It totally is."_

Arthur clears his throat.

"Oh! Gil's our neighbor." Alfred twists around in his seat to face Arthur, grinning. His glasses are crooked, and he hasn't shaved, and in the light of the morning the stubble is almost transparent, a glowing outline on his square jaw. His earlier anger is completely forgotten. "He's got a bit of a… _thing_ for her."

The radio has long since switched to something that sounds like Pink Floyd but probably isn't. Arthur wishes that it would be. He could use some whiny, self-indulgent prog rock right about now. "And just how big is this _thing_ he has?" he asks cautiously, not even sure if he wants an answer.

"Like, cardboard-cutouts-in-his-living-room big," Matthew says.

"I didn't even know they _sold_ cardboard cutouts of her. Knowing Liz, though, she'd probably want one."

Alfred blinks again. "You know her?"

Arthur nods. "Yes, she is most likely going to assist Roderich in my murder. I saw her this morning."

"What, is she in your movie too?"

"Yes. And Roderich already hates me a little because I have to _kiss_ her, and now I walk out on a table read…" He sighs and leans his head against the window, closing his eyes for a moment and pretending he is anywhere but in a car with Alfred F. Jones.

He had lied earlier. He doesn't particularly dislike Alfred, really. He just feels obligated to.

Is this what regret feels like? A balloon filling in your chest until it's on the verge of exploding and taking you with it? If the consequences of his actions hadn't occurred to him before, they sure as hell do now.

"_Fuck,"_ he breathes.

Sagely, Matthew says, "You are pretty screwed, man."

Arthur can only nod miserably.

The song switches. More Springsteen. This time Alfred does sing, and his voice isn't even bad. It's the kind of voice that should have been trained but never was, the kind of voice that could have been a nice warm tenor.

"'It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap,'" he declares, throwing his head back, rumbling in all the right places. He stops singing, and laughs instead, when Matthew punches him.

"I take it you like Springsteen," Arthur comments dryly.

Matthew meets his suggestion with a cynical laugh. "He knows every word to every song that has ever left the man's mouth. There is no greater love in this world," he sighs wistfully, "than the one between Alfred Jones and Bruce Springsteen."

Alfred nods enthusiastically. "Ours is a legendary tale of passion!"

Bruce croons and begs to Wendy, and the twins in the front seat spin an unabashedly smutty tale of romance in which Springsteen is the knight in shining armor to Alfred's princess ("Dude, if I have to be the _princess,_ I'm at least the badass kind who doesn't wear a dress").

Arthur feels terribly out of his depth.

At some point, Alfred lights a cigarette and dangles his hand out of the window, taking only the occasional pull. He lets it waste, just to watch the smoke disappear in the wind. Then Matthew makes an offhand comment about the mortality rates of lung cancer victims in the U.S.

Alfred drops the cigarette.

The Springsteen song ends and a block of commercials begins.

Arthur hates to play the "are we there yet" game, so he doesn't. He lets Matthew drive and Alfred sing unabashedly along to the radio; when "No Quarter" starts playing, he provides the low notes that Alfred can't hit. He knows the words better, anyway.

"It's 'cold,' not 'low,'" Arthur corrects when Robert Plant's wailings fade out, and the obnoxious radio DJ comes honking out of the shitty speakers again.

Alfred glances at him in the rearview mirror. "What?"

"'The winds of Thor are blowing _cold,'"_ he sings absentmindedly.

Alfred gives him a look.

"You said 'low' instead," he offers desperately.

"You're way weirder than I thought you'd be," he laughs. "You seem normal on TV."

Arthur isn't even angry, because it's probably true.

They stop at a Dunkin Donuts for coffees (Alfred and Matt) and a piss (Arthur, who would rather make himself bleed than consume that devil's beverage). In the stall, he finally turns on his phone, which pings loudly 204 times. Francis is in the lead for amount of panicked and/or furious texts sent with a cool 123, but Elizaveta is hot on his tail. She is responsible for the ones with the best grammar and the most profanity.

In the later ones, she gets really creative. Arthur is awed by the emotional range of her swears. He would _never_ have thought to use "cunt-sucking whoreson." Genius, really.

The place is deserted except for the employees behind the counter, two teenage girls. Al and Matt have claimed a space near the window. They hunch uncomfortably over the too-small plastic table, the fucking giants. Arthur isn't short, by any means, but he takes being even an inch or two below someone else as a personal insult. It's what comes of growing up in a house full of the lankiest older brothers imaginable and having them hold your books high over your head so you can't get at them.

And then dropping them in the loo "by accident."

Good fucking times.

He pulls another chair over to join the twins; they glance at him and nod, and seem to be off-put by the gaping stares of the employees.

"Is that Arthur Kirkland? It can't be Arthur Kirkland," one whispers doubtfully (but hopefully) to the shorter girl behind of the register.

"They're probably doppelgangers or something," she says, and the taller girl laughs.

Alfred raises an eyebrow.

"Haven't you heard?" Arthur asks innocently. "My evil twin is the actor, not me." He's thankful that it's not unseasonably cold for once, since he forgot his coat at Roderich's. His vintage pea coat. _The poor thing is probably being horribly mistreated._

Maybe it should concern Arthur that he cares more about that coat than he does about human beings.

It doesn't.

Matthew isn't listening. He's too busy texting earnestly, a little smile at the corners of his mouth, and Alfred asks him about it.

"It's Kat," he sighs happily, which makes his brother choke on his coffee.

"When did you even get the chance to swap numbers?" he demands.

"You're just oblivious."

"Who's Kat?" Arthur asks (not because he's terribly nosy or anything).

Alfred snorts. "Our crazy landlady's sister, who Matthew met for, like, two seconds, right? And they're already a cheesy first date and a romantic proposal away from a house in the countryside and a horde of hockey-playing, poutine-gobbling offspring."

"Am _not!_" Matthew cries childishly, but doesn't really seem to think of that as a bad outcome. Turning to Arthur, he explains, "Kat lives in Toronto, but she's moving here to be closer to her siblings. Apparently her younger brother lives in Boston, too, so—" His phone vibrates, and he hurriedly goes back to texting, trailing off.

"Of _course_ she's from Canada. It's a match made in heaven." Alfred cups his hands and makes an obscene gesture in front of his chest. "Plus, it helps that she's, you know, got _huge—"_

Matthew drops his phone on the table. "Oh, come on, Al—"

"Tracts of land?" Arthur offers.

The twins look up at Arthur.

"Sorry, I—" he tries to say, but they're laughing too hard to care.

"Is knowing Monty Python a prerequisite to being British?" Alfred asks.

Arthur answers with a solemn nod. "They don't give you your powdered wig or a seat in Parliament until you've memorized _The Life of Brian."_

Which sends them into fits again.

They finish quickly after that, and head back out to the cab; Arthur takes the backseat and is about to stretch out when Alfred hops in beside him. "What—"

Alfred holds up his camera meekly. "While we're here…?"

Arthur sighs and is about to condemn it when Alfred says, "Hey, you're the one who barged in. Face the consequences, man." He lifts his camera up to his face and before he knows it, Arthur is blinded from the flash.

Matthew laughs. Alfred is going to have the most morose gallery showing ever, if Arthur can do anything to help it.

After a lot of whining and a lot more pictures, they finally tell him where the hell they're going. Arthur promptly forgets the name of the town , since all he cares about is the fact that's it's only another hour until they get there. When all of _this_ began, when he had to go and get himself pissed that night (only a few days ago still, how fast time has gone) and ended up in Jones' apartment, he never thought that he would ever end up meeting Jones' _mother._

Somewhere along the way, he falls asleep. He has confused dreams of crooked glasses glinting in camera flashes, and he forgets them when he is jostled awake.

Alfred hops out of the car, laughing about something, and so does Matthew. Arthur, still groggy, makes no move to leave.

"You coming?" Alfred asks, sticking his head through the open door.

Arthur shrugs awkwardly, rubbing his eyes and fixing his hair. "I don't want to intrude."

The photographer raises an eyebrow dubiously. "You didn't care about that when you hopped in the car and demanded a lift to Connecticut."

Well…

Arthur has no argument, but he can at least huff at the imaginary injustice as he steps out.

The neighborhood is small and poor, and so is the house, with the irrevocably dingy look of an old building never properly cared for. Arthur can see where Alfred and Matthew got their pride from, however, because the lawn (or what's left of it) is cut evenly and perfectly; everything else is neat and clean. Arthur likes this family's philosophy: when you don't have much, you take care of what you do have. If he weren't so materialistic, he would live by it.

Alfred's feet begin to drag the closer and closer they get to the front door, like he's fighting his way through an ever-growing layer of molasses.

"Come on, Al," Matt prods gently, and grabs his arm to drag him the rest of the way to the door. "Word of warning," he says, turning his head over his shoulder to face Arthur, "our mother is probably your biggest fan."

Arthur blanches. "And my presence is a _complete_ surprise?"

Matthew shrugs, saying silently, _You're the one who got yourself into this—_ and, well, it's true.

"We'll make something up," Matthew says. "Just be cool."

Since Arthur is paid exorbitant amounts of money to be cool, he says it shouldn't be a problem.

Alfred is very quiet, so unlike him, and he looks drawn and pale. It's not right. Arthur wants to rile him up just so he'll finally make some noise, like the _real_ Alfred, to get rid of this strange impostor. But he just watches him play despondently with his camera.

When Matthew rings the doorbell, Alfred exudes so much dread that it's almost suffocating. Arthur hangs behind.

The horrible creature that Arthur expects to open the door is actually a plump woman in her forties, wearing an outfit that went out of style at least thirty years ago, and even back then it would be considered ugly. Blonde hair dulling to gray, curled meticulously and pinned over her head in a style that is probably supposed be nice-looking.

Arthur, looking her up and down, would give an A for effort.

Her smile, though, is small and soft and sweet, a classic motherly smile; more like Matthew's slight grin than Alfred's (which, when he's happy, stretches across his face like a lazy cat and is just as obstructive).

But he is not happy now. In fact, he looks more miserable than Arthur could have ever imagined.

"Hi, Mom," Alfred greets, too cheerful-sounding for his expression, and hugs her. Matthew does the same, a bit less reluctantly.

"You've finally come down to see your old mother," the woman sighs wearily.

Matthew laughs and shakes his head. "You're far from old, Mom."

Their mother— Mrs. Jones? Mrs. Williams? Why do they have different last names, anyway?— steps inside, and suddenly Arthur is very exposed.

Their mother gapes.

"Oh, um, Mom," Alfred struggles to explain, "This is Arthur Kirkland."

She opens her mouth to speak but doesn't; she spins wildly around to face her sons, while simultaneously keeping an eye on Arthur, and a massive smile breaks her face.

Alfred and Matthew simultaneously blabber two different lies. One is spouting something about a car breaking down; the other is going on and on about three chance meetings and a run-in with Irish gangsters on the south side of Boston during a fast-paced, daring rescue.

But she's not listening to either of them. Mrs. Jones/Williams lets Arthur in, ushering him on. "Welcome to my humble home, Mr. Kirkland!" she greets brightly, unfazed and totally ecstatic. She rambles on in a thick Southern accent. "What an honor it is to have you in my home, you know, never in a million years did I _ever_ think I would have such a famous man in my house, never mind _Arthur Kirkland!_ How wonderful is this, now just let me fetch the lemonade I got ready for my boys, I'm so sorry if it ain't up to snuff with what you usually have, but it's all we've got!"

He assures her that lemonade is completely fine and that yes, he does not only subsist on martinis and caviar (though he wishes he could), so anything she serves him will be perfectly adequate.

As she hobbles off to a kitchen somewhere, Arthur eyes the hunched-over, shrunken Alfred— who is currently trying to blend into the drab floral wallpaper (despite his neon green T-shirt). He's examining his fingernails intently, like there's gold hidden beneath them.

The inside of the house, it seems, is just like the outside: drab and old and clean. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It reminds Arthur of the house he grew up in (except maybe a bit smaller, and with less stains on the walls from various food fights). He follows the twins into the living room, where Alfred and Matthew immediately fall into their personal indents in the couch, formed by years of arse-pressure. Arthur perches awkwardly on the arm of a loveseat, across from the old television set. (Old as in "has an antenna.")

Arthur can hear Mrs. Jones/Williams puttering about in an unseen kitchen, opening the refrigerator and preparing something. She comes back in bearing a tray of lemonade.

"Thanks, Mom," says Matt, reaching over to take a glass when she sets them on the teetering coffee table. He nudges Alfred, none too lightly, to take one as well. He does, but he doesn't drink, holding it a calculated distance away from his face, like it's poisoned.

Arthur takes one and sips cautiously. It's delicious, better than he could ever do. (For, though he'll never admit it, whenever Arthur Kirkland steps into a kitchen, everything edible within perishes.)

"Alfred, dear," their mother begins in an authoritative tone, "What have I told you about dressing like that? Really, that green…" She shakes her head and places the tray on the coffee table. "Are you _trying_ to dress like a girl?"

The photographer sinks into the back of the sagging couch in the hopes of being absorbed by the fabric and never seen again.

"Why can't you dress like Matthew?" she barrels on, sweetly, relentlessly. "He looks like such a fine young man. Don't you, Mattie?"

Arthur chokes on his lemonade. She doesn't notice.

Matthew gives a small half-smile, barely listening because he's too busy plucking at the sleeve of Alfred's jacket, trying to gently pry him out of the cushions. "My style isn't for everybody, Mom," he replies warily, like he's stepping on glass.

"Oh, I don't know. It's how any good young man should dress, I think." She shrugs innocently, reaching for one of the glasses herself and settling down in an armchair. She turns to Alfred. "Have you been seeing any girls lately?"

"No," he mumbles.

She laughs. "Well, why not? You're a good-looking boy. You could have them hanging off you."

"I don't want them _hanging off me,"_ he spits, standing suddenly, rocking restlessly on the balls of his feet. "I'll be. Wherever." He plunks his glass down on the table and stalks off; there's the telltale slam of a screen door somewhere out back.

_That didn't last long, _thinks Arthur.

Matthew stares worriedly after his brother, and after a while, he follows him, leaving only Arthur and the mother.

_And then there were two. _Arthur wants to punch himself for thinking it. He smiles gently at Mrs. Jones/Williams (he _seriously_ needs to get that name thing straightened out), and notices a small rack of DVDs behind her.

All of them are _his_ films.

Go figure.

"Perhaps we should join them?" he asks her, when he feels she's been staring at him for long enough.

"Well, Alfred gets like this," she laughs. "You know, you say one little innocent thing and he—"

Arthur cuts her off with, "I'd _really_ like some fresh air."

The woman (the stupid, stupid woman, Arthur can already see what's been going on in this house for _years_) folds, in a pile of smiles and titterings of "here, here, the back door is here."

There's the screen door that Arthur had heard Alfred pass through, and a small backyard with no grass, just dirt; there's a patio with plastic chairs and a grill, and a chain-link fence that separates them from an equally tiny yard.

_Nothing like where I grew up,_ Arthur sighs inwardly,_ where it was all open grass on misty mornings…_

Alfred is whispering like he wants to shout, arms waving wildly, lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth; Matthew is nodding gravely and trying to calm him down with soft words. It does not seem to be working.

Both of them whip around to face the opening door, Alfred bristling, bringing his shoulders and head up like he's meeting a challenge. Matthew already looks tired.

"Alfred, you'll get lung cancer," his mother warns wearily, taking one of the chairs on the patio. "Mr. Kirkland, please, take a seat."

He does. Careful not to dirty his shoes, he steps over and sits as far away from the woman as possible. Matthew takes the chair next to his mother. Alfred shuffles over but doesn't sit. Or put out his cigarette. He keeps smoking, his own little form of rebellion.

"So," says Arthur.

Mrs. Jones/Williams looks up expectantly. He finally asks her what she would like to be called.

"Well, my last name is Jones," she says (her complete comfort around him is so surprising; she's not even crying, which is what "biggest fans" tend to do) "but you can call me—"

"Mrs. Jones," he interrupts, with what he hopes is an air of finality. Keep it formal_._ He then asks, "If it isn't too personal a question, that is, but why _aren't_ you Mrs. Williams?"

"Oh, that," their mother laughs. "Me and their father—" she waves a hand at Matthew and Alfred— "were never married, you see? And when we ended it, right after the boys were born, we took a baby each. Mattie went to Montreal, where his daddy was from, Alfred stayed here with me."

_For God's _sake_, woman,_ Arthur thinks, disgusted. She nods, like what she just said was sensible_._

Alfred adds bitterly, "No courts to go through, since they weren't married. So they split us up."

"Don't sound so down about it, Alfred!" she exclaims. "We all got to be a big happy family again eventually."

"Yeah, when we were _fifteen."_

"When Dad died," Matthew explains quietly. "They came up to Montreal and brought me back."

A small smile lifts Alfred's lips a little, and he looks like himself again. As he speaks, smoke flies out of his mouth and into the cold wind. "We hated each other for, like, a year."

"More than that," laughs Matthew.

"You didn't _hate_ each other," Mrs. Jones insists. "You just had… you had _differences."_

Matthew snorts. "Yeah, differences. Differences that made us hate each other."

"Watch your tone, Matthew."

"Sorry, Mom."

Arthur asks, "What changed?"

"I saved his ass," Alfred says gloatingly.

"Alfred! Langauge."

"Sorry, Mom."

"I was getting beat up behind the school one time," begins Matthew, "for mouthing off to some tough kid. I don't even remember. But then Alfred waltzes out the fire escape door, since the alarm hadn't been connected for as long as anybody could remember, because he was going out for a smoke or something—"

"_Alfred!"_ their mother cries.

"—and he beat the ever-loving shit out of them."

"_Language!_" she shouts again, but making her boys behave seems to be a futile effort.

Alfred laughs. "The suspension was worth it. Damn, Matt, you didn't stand a _chance _against those mother—" a sharp look from _his_ mother— "dirty rascals. I meant to say 'dirty rascals.'"

Arthur is a bit mystified that 'dirty rascals' is the first thing that came to his mind.

Alfred seems to have calmed down a bit; tensions die down, which Arthur is thankful for. Alfred finally takes a seat, using the plastic chair between Matt and Arthur himself. The camera still swings from his neck.

They talk about nothing much. Mrs. Jones makes the conversation, in all her sweetness and unrealized cruelty. Matthew ignores all of them, concentrating on the consistent buzzing of his phone. Probably still talking to the Kat girl, the one with the formidable chest.

The one thing that the twins' mother wants to talk about most, though, is Arthur's new film. "Oh, I've read articles," she sighs. "None of them say what it's about, though! I _really_ can't wait to see it, you have no idea! So what is it about, exactly?"

"Well," says Arthur uncomfortably, "that's sort of impossible for me to tell you, at this stage. Too early on, you see. Not even allowed to tell the press yet."

She sighs again, disappointed this time instead of wistful. "I understand. I just really am a _big_ fan. You like his movies, too, don't you, Alfred?"

Alfred looks up from the hem of his controversial green shirt, which he's been fiddling with, and gives an awkward cough. "They, um, seem like they'd be up my alley," he says.

Arthur can't help but grin. "You've never seen any of my films, have you?"

"No!" he protests, but then it turns into a more docile acceptance of the facts. "Well. No. I've seen snippets on the movie channels, but you were just... never in those snippets."

Arthur laughs, but his mother glares at him, deathly serious. "Alfred, they are masterpieces and I am sitting you down to watch one _right now,"_ she announces. "Put out your stupid little cigarette and come inside."

Arthur cries, "No, it's quite alright! He can see them another time. It's fine, _really_. You needn't go through the trouble—"

"Nonsense, Mr. Kirkland! I own all of them, after all. Come on, boys! No better time to watch a movie than when the main character's watching it with you, huh?"

Matt looks at Arthur with bemused pity and stands, shoving his phone into his pocket. Arthur scowls back. The phone in his own pocket suddenly feels very heavy.

Miserably, Alfred stomps out his cigarette ("What a waste," he mutters) and heads back in with the rest of them.

"If you could direct me to a washroom…?" says Arthur quietly. He has infuriated text messages to answer.

Alfred wordlessly points up at a flight of stairs, directing him to the door at the top.

"Thanks," he whispers. "Enjoy the movie."

Alfred punches him in the arm, good-naturedly, but it still _hurts._ The brute doesn't know his own strength.

Arthur tromps up the stairs (trying not to rub his arm too conspicuously), taking out his phone before he's even closed the bathroom door. He turns it on to another barrage of _pings._

The most recent text is from Francis.

[From: The Frog]

I WILL RIP OUT YOUR ORGANS ONE BY ONE IF YOU DO NOT REPLY THIS ISNTANT, YOU INSUFFERABLE ENGLISHMAN.

[1:34 PM]

Arthur sits on the edge of the chipping bathtub and taps in a reply.

[To: The Frog]

I'm very sorry. Please tell everyone that I'm fine.

[1:35 PM]

[From: The Frog]

Do you have any IDEA what you have done? Where the hell are you?

[1:35 PM]

[To: The Frog]

Yes, sadly, I do. And I'm in Connecticut.

[1:35 PM]

[From: The Frog]

CCONNECTICUT TH E STATE? YOU FUCKIGN LITTLE BITCH, WHAT TH FUKC FUCK FUCK FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE EV

[1:36]

[From: The Frog]

EN DONE YOU SSON OF A BITCH?

[1:36]

[From: The Frog]

Elizaveta took my phone. She apologizes for the spelling errors; she's in a rage. But she has a point.

[1:36]

[To: The Frog]

She has a point, and she is corect. I am a son of a bitch, indeed.

[1:37]

[To: The Frog]

Correct*

[1:37]

[From: The Frog]

Roderich is so angry that he's been playing sonatas for three hours and won't talk to anyone.

[1:37]

[To: The Frog]

Oh, dear. Is that bad?

[1:37]

[From: The Frog]

There could literally be nothing worse.

[1:37]

[To: The Frog]

Tell him I'll be back tomorrow.

[1:37]

[From: The Frog]

Tell him yourself. Come back.

[1:37]

[To: The Frog]

I'm a bit tied up at the moment. My only ride is currently in the living room with his mother, watching my films.

[1:38]

[From: The Frog]

You're with your photographer, aren't you?

[1:38]

[To: The Frog]

…Is it that obvious?

[1:38]

[From: The Frog]

How old are you, Arthur? 28. For how many years have I known you? 28. Stop trying to escape from me. I have eye

[1:38]

[From: The Frog]

s everywhere.

[1:38]

[To: The Frog]

That is absolutely terrifying. Look, I will be at Roderich's flat at nine AM tomorrow to apologize.

[1:38]

[From: The Frog]

Good, because he has ceased to play notes and is just smashing on the keys.

[1:39]

[To: The Frog]

Tell him what I said. Good luck, Francis.

[1:39]

[To: The Frog]

I'm not the one who needs it.

[1:40]

Arthur puts his phone away and douses his hands, face, in the coldest water that will come out of the rusty tap. If he were religious, it would be baptism. He feels clean all the way through afterwards.

When he walks downstairs, Mrs. Jones is still agonizing over what film to choose. Alfred is asleep on the couch, and Matthew is texting again.

"We could watch _Midnight's Daisy,_" she muses, running a finger along the spine of a DVD case.

"I had literally two lines in _Midnight's Daisy,_" Arthur says incredulously, stepping into the living room.

She beams at him. "They were the best two," she declares with confidence, and keeps looking.

Arthur notices that his first big break, the movie where he was the lover of a poet (the one Matthew had been watching that first morning), is missing from her extensive collection. _Too gay for this household, apparently,_ he thinks bitterly.

Alfred snores; Matthew punches him in the gut. Waking with a desperate snort, Alfred's glasses fly off his face, his hair a rat's nest from where it had twisted against the couch cushions.

He hurriedly collects his specs, checking for damage and shoving them back onto his face. "You stupid little bitch!" he cries, taking a swing at Matthew. The scuffle that ensues is broken with a practiced, motherly bellow from Mrs. Jones.

She finally breaks the suspense by choosing Arthur's most recent film, a quiet spy thriller, not put out in many mainstream theaters but garnered great reviews either way. Mrs. Jones turns on the TV, slips the disc into the DVD player and gives a little squeal of excitement as she presses PLAY.

"I still can't believe you're friends with Arthur Kirkland and you've never even seen one of his movies," she chuckles to Alfred, who stammers something about _friends, well, I don't know about _friends,_ maybe acquaintances?_ But it's too late, the film has started and Mrs. Jones is already enthralled. Matthew looks up with interest, as well.

Arthur hates watching himself. He's never met another actor who doesn't. All he can o is nitpick; _I look like an idiot there, why in the world did I think that phrasing worked, did I just look at the camera?_

He prides himself in his work— he just doesn't want to watch it. He excuses himself again, this time to the kitchen, wondering if there's anything to drink.

There _is,_ thank the Lord above! Cheap beer, standing like a godsend on a shelf in the fridge. It's rude, it's infringing on hospitality, but he takes the bottle and digs an opener out of a drawer, relishing the _hiss_. He puts his lips to the bottle and—

"Raiding the fridge is usually my job, dude."

Alfred is standing, grinning in the doorway; Arthur, in vain, tries to hide the bottle behind his back.

"Take it easy! Just don't get smashed this time." His smile shows that it wasn't supposed to be a cruel comment, but Arthur scowls all the same.

Alfred strolls across the kitchen and reaches for a bottle himself, taking the bottle opener from the countertop; with another _hiss,_ Alfred holds up his bottle in a toast. Arthur taps the neck of his with Alfred's, reluctantly, and they both take a swig.

"Never too early to start drinking," Alfred sighs contentedly.

Arthur snorts. "Finally, someone who agrees with me."

Alfred takes a seat at the rickety kitchen table, and Arthur follows him. The photographer immediately snaps a picture, and Arthur is surprised to find that he barely even cares anymore.

Arthur asks, "Where's Matt?"

Alfred grins widely at him. "I think you're gonna have a new fan on your hands, Artie. He's been sucked in."

Arthur almost chokes on his drink. "You did _not_ just call me Artie."

He raises his eyebrows all innocently— _what did I do?_

"If you call me Artie," Arthur cautions, "I am going to have to call you Alfie."

"You _wouldn't."_

"Don't underestimate me."

"Dude, no. Those sound like couple names."

"Oh my God, Alfred," he coughs. "What would your _mother_ think?"

They both giggle wildly, in the most unmanly way possible.

"Just imagine," laughs Alfred, doubling over to rest his forehead on the table. "Man, she _already_ has a gay son she doesn't want. I don't think she could deal with her actor crush being a homo, too."

Arthur shrugs, a little timidly. Even under (self-inflicted?) blackmail, this man is becoming much too easy to talk to. "She'll _have_ to deal with it," he says slowly, sipping slowly from his bottle, savoring the terrible beer.

Alfred's eyebrows shoot up so high they almost fly away.

Arthur regrets opening his mouth immediately. "It— well, obviously, it isn't _public…_"

But Alfred stares at him.

"How can I put this in terms an American can understand?" he contemplates aloud, tilting his head and tapping the rim of the bottle against his lips, trying to make this at least a little funny so some of the awkward will go away. (Alfred smirks. Plus one point for Arthur.) "I guess you could say that I'm like a highway in the Midwest. Think Kansas. Have you ever been to Kansas?"

Alfred nods. "Yeah, actually. An uncle of mine had a farm there."

"Right. Well, you know how it's all long, straight roads? But every once and a while, you reach a town. The town has a few more turns, the straight road gets a little convoluted. And on some occasions you'll drive through a rotary, and it's not straight _at all._" He pauses for a drink. "You see what I mean?"

"No, not at all. Arthur, have you ever heard of the Kinsey Scale?"

"The one-through-six, completely-straight-to-completely-gay chart."

"Right." He nods. "That was invented so people like you wouldn't have to make lengthy and confusing Kansas highway metaphors about their bisexuality."

"Fine, you conformist." Arthur gives him a shark-like grin, and Alfred, ever the mature one, sticks his tongue out at him.

"I don't really discriminate between the sexes," he continues. "As clichéd as it sounds, it's more about the person than the gender. Yet, if I had to, I'd put myself at a nice, healthy three and a half."

"There's no halves on the Kinsey Scale."

"There is now. And you?"

"I'm at _least_ a seven."

Arthur blinks. "I thought it only went up to six."

"Exactly."

Arthur laughs, loudly and deeply, and it feels good, so he does it some more. "You know, Alfred, for the longest time, you flew _completely_ under my gaydar. My suspicions were only confirmed today, with your mother's dazzling display of homophobia." (Alfred snorts and rolls his eyes.) "I thought Matthew called you a fag just to be cruel."

Alfred laughs now, higher, boyishly. "Well, he _does_ call me a fag just to be cruel. Doesn't mean it isn't true, though."

"I suppose so." He taps the side of his half-empty bottle against the edge of the table, daring it to break. "Seriously, though. Even in a lime green T-shirt, you _still_ look straight. That, sir, is an amazing feat."

"I guess that's true, isn't it?" he laughs, totally unabashed. He goes on after a long swig, as if to steel himself for the coming story. "When I was in college, I used to go to this gay bar with some of my friends, right? Shitty little place, but fun enough." He shrugs casually. "I just never got hit on. Ever. At first, I thought it was because I was revolting or something, but no— everyone there just assumed that I was that one straight guy tagging along with his gay friends." He laughs a little (_he's the kind of person who laughs at his own jokes, the bastard,_ Arthur thinks amiably).

"I only found that out when a guy asked me to go home with him, and I said yes. And he was _shocked._ Oh, shit, man, you should have seen the look on his face." Alfred's eyes widen, his jaw goes slack like a dead fish's, and Arthur cackles.

"He told me that one of his friends had bet him a hundred dollars that he couldn't get in a straight guy's pants. He was convinced he was going to seduce me out of liking vagina. It was hilarious."

"I bet you went home with him anyway," Arthur says.

Alfred raises his bottle in a mock toast. "You bet your bottom dollar I did. I won that motherfucker a hundred bucks that night."

(Arthur had never noticed that Alfred had been taking pictures that whole time.)

After a while, Arthur finds himself blurting, "I don't really dislike you, Jones. I _did,_ but I don't anymore."

Alfred nods. "At first, I thought you were a strange alien made out of acting and money. Now I know that you're an asshole. Still made out of acting and money, mind you, but assholes are human like the rest of us."

"When I said _my_ part, I was trying to be kind."

"_I_ wasn't."

"That much is obvious."

Arthur's phone pings again; this time it's Elizaveta, apologizing for being rude earlier. Probably because Francis told her to. And Antonio probably thinks this whole thing is hilarious, a sort of backhanded retribution for the Yacht Incident. Arthur makes a mental note to hit him later.

"Who's that?" Alfred asks, caring nothing for keeping his nose out of other peoples' goddamn business.

Arthur sighs, deletes the text, and slips the phone back into his pocket. He's had enough confrontations for one day. "Elizaveta."

"Héderváry?"

"The very same," he says, and smiles. "The one your friend is in love with."

"And you said earlier that you're her friend. Does everyone in Hollywood know each other?"

Nodding judiciously, Arthur replies, "Yes. We've got underground networks that connect our houses to every other famous person, so we can plot the ultimate destruction of you untalented plebs."

Alfred grins and is about to reply when Matthew scurries in, his trainers squeaking as he slides to a halt, pointing at Arthur with intent.

"You," he declares, "are a fucking _genius_."

Alfred laughs at the sudden display, and all Arthur can reply with is an uncertain "Thank you?"

Matthew shakes his head. "Seriously, man. I can't even believe it. We're in the middle of this movie, and I _know_ you now, in real life, and I can barely recognize you. It's like you change skins. I don't know how you do it."

"It's all in the self-loathing," Arthur explains airily. "You just want to be someone else so hard that you stop being yourself."

"That sounds terrible," says Alfred.

"It is, but I like acting, and it gets me lots and lots of money."

Matt laughs, grabs a Coke from the fridge, and as he leaves he promises Arthur lots and lots of fanfiction.

Arthur looks at Alfred questioningly. Alfred snaps a picture, and nods gravely that _yes, my brother does indeed write fanfiction._

"Matt was an English major. I studied photography. It's probably why we're so poor," he sighs.

"I was a history major. Not a lot of jobs in that field, either."

Rolling his eyes, Alfred drawls, "So you managed to snag one in acting, which is _so_ much less exclusive."

"I'm just lucky, I guess.".

"Yeah, you most definitely are."

Arthur thinks about that for a moment. He never _feels_ lucky. Most of the time, his life feels more like a burden than a good time.

Does Alfred F. Jones always see the world like this? Like it's all one big communal bowl of happiness, even when you never knew your father, even when you've got a mother who must have shoved you into that little hetero box of hers for years and years and years? And you come back out the other side, with a useless college degree and a shitty apartment in a city you hate, and you're still _happy._

It hurts Arthur's head to even think about, and it makes him hate himself a little more. _Too bad those were the last two beers._

They continue to talk about nothing, and Alfred continues to take pictures; when the movie is over, and after a good half hour of gushing, Matthew declares that it is time to leave.

After the obligatory hugs goodbye (Alfred's is stiff and formal), Mrs. Jones says, "Oh, can I get a picture with you, Mr. Kirkland? My friends just ain't gonna believe it if they don't see it!"

"Of course," he says, and motions for Alfred to do the honors. He bends down to her level, putting on a smile from his ever-practiced repertoire: the Look at What a Nice and Relatable Person I Am (ver. 2). With the press of a button, it's captured, and Mrs. Jones gives a happy little squeal that rivals even the youngest of fangirls'.

"I expect a signed copy next time you come back, Alfred. A girlfriend would be nice, too! Mattie's got one," she titters.

"She's not my girlfriend," Matt protests weakly.

Alfred tries to smile, but it ends up being a grimace. "I can supply the first, Mom, not so much the second."

"Oh, dear. You're still in this phase…" She gives a little _tut, tut, tut_ that makes Arthur want to shake her.

"You'll have to settle _sometime,_" she sighs, patting her leaning hairdo back into place.

There's a _snap_ in Alfred, so dramatic that it is almost audible.

Arthur realizes that the shit has, just now, hit the fan.

Alfred's voice is low and surprisingly menacing as he growls, "Mom, the only kind of person I will ever _settle_ with— and it won't be anytime soon, since I am only twenty- _fucking_-three— will be a human being with a distinct lack of _tits!"_

"Al!" Matthew cries, but it's futile. Their mother's brow furrows.

"You do _not_ use such language in front of me," she intones, holding up a shaking index finger. Arthur looks on, a helpless spectator in a game of verbal tennis gone horribly wrong.

"I'll use whatever language I fucking_ want,_" Alfred sneers, "because I am _sick_ of—"

Matthew smacks him in the back of the head. "Bye, Mom, love you," he shouts over Alfred's shrieks of indignation as he drags his brother out the door, slamming it behind him.

Arthur is still inside, though; he gives an awkward lopsided smile (his I Have No Idea What to Say or Do Right Now), stammers something about how nice it is to meet fans, and scurries outside, Mrs. Jones still staring emptily after him.

Alfred and Matt are already getting in the cab. He runs to meet them.

Arthur ends up in the passenger seat next to Matthew, with Alfred forcibly put in back; if he were up front, he'd probably be strangling his brother.

"I was _finally_ standing up to her!" he rages, kicking the back of the driver's seat as hard as he can. "You fucking little prick, you drag me out when I was _finally_ getting my way—"

Matthew buckles up and starts the car, throwing an "I'm sorry" look at Arthur, apologizing for the coming shitstorm. Pulling off of the curb, he says, "Because she's our _mother_, Al, and you're not going to change her mind about you by flipping out on her."

"She is the biggest fucking— fucking— she is the _worst person on the planet._"

"Look, I know she did some terrible stuff, Al—"

"Remember when she wouldn't let me join the swim team because the other guys would be in Speedos? And she thought her poor demon-possessed son only wanted an eyeful of ass?"

Matthew groans in exasperation. "Well, _yeah,_ and that was horrible! I get it, okay? I hate her just as much as you do. I love her, though, too, because she raised us and gave us food and shelter and made sure we didn't, you know, _die._"

"I was never ashamed of it, Matt!" Alfred screams, his hands flying in the air, only to smash against the ceiling. "I— I was never ashamed of, of being a _fag,_ a _homo. _Remember when she used to call me that? And she didn't even think she was being mean. 'Alfred, dear, don't be a _fag. _Don't be a _homo._' Do you even fucking _remember_?"

"Al, of _course_ I remember!"

"Jesus, she never let me be a _kid,_ Matt. No one would have even cared if I came out of the closet in high school. There were plenty of gay kids out and about. If any kids even bothered to give me shit, I would have bashed their skulls in. I could have done it. I was the fucking _quarterback._ The problem wasn't that I was ashamed of myself, Matt. I have _never_ been ashamed of me. The only person that has ever been ashamed of me is _her._"

Alfred runs a hand through his hair, jaw set in a painfully light line, and says nothing more.

In the silence, Arthur turns on the radio.

It could have been a poignant song that fit the moment beautifully. It could have been a soft ballad, a screaming tear of electric guitar that would ring in their ears for an hour afterwards, meaning everything and nothing, all at once.

It's a Viagra advert.

Three hours later, Arthur is sitting back in his hotel room, Alfred's cell phone number safely saved into his phone ("Come around sometime next week, I'll call you").

He grabs a beer from the fridge, pulls off the cap and takes a huge gulp. He wishes it tasted worse, like the beer at Mrs. Jones's house.

**A/N: Alfred Has Mommy Issues, Part 423 out of His Entire Life.**

** People who said the last chapter was short, this is for you! I liked writing such a lengthy chapter. Maybe I'll manage to do it again sometime.**

** Thank you guys for being **_**so fucking**__**amazing**_**. So many reviews last time! If you loved (or hated) this story, I won't know unless you tell me. Favorites and alerts are all fine and dandy, but reviews mean a million times more, and they always manage to make my day.**

**Music Note (see what I did there?): ****The Springsteen song quoted is, of course, "Born to Run." "No Quarter" is Led Zeppelin. I'm probably going to vomit all of my favorite music into this fic— that is your warning and your enticement, because, if I do say so myself, I've got pretty good taste.**

** Until next time, my lovelies!**


	7. Chapter 7

The good news is that Alfred is no longer unemployed.

The bad news is that he wishes he still was.

From the minute he set foot in the Red Dragon (they couldn't have chosen a more clichéd name if he tried), Alfred learned that avoiding the screams and shouts of Yao Wang, the owner, was an impossible task. He's just always angry, and furious is his constant state of being.

Of course, Alfred's a waiter. Isn't that the default job of any starving artist anywhere? When he and Matt lived in L.A., every restaurant they went to was full of actors searching for their _big break._ Yet they weren't researching a role by working there, or buying a meal with their piles of acting money. They weren't doing anything. And now that Alfred is one of them, those hopeless young creative kids, he realizes how much it _sucks._

His apron feels like a dunce cap.

He and Mattie used to laugh at those wannabes. They were so convinced they would get famous immediately, that everything would fall into place, just like it did for Woody Allen, when he started writing jokes as a teenager and never had to do anything else but his dream his entire life.

Alfred the photographer and Matthew the writer; that's how it always was supposed to be. Matthew's amazing at what he does, too, and he's working on his poems in all the free time he has.

But with Kat coming around more and more often, Alfred figures that a lot of that free time will be taken up by something else. They've been getting super lovey-dovey. Kind of adorable, but also _absolutely disgusting. _It doesn't help that their budding romance constantly reminds Alfred of the fact that he hasn't gotten laid in, like, a year.

Which is super depressing. He'd been pretty, heh, _popular_ in college, too. Then again, since he and his brother got trapped in Boston, he hasn't really been going out much. He mostly sleeps and takes pictures of that one incredibly famous guy who comes to his apartment, like, three times a week.

_That_ whole deal is actually going well, which is surprising. Keyword surprising. Arthur has, against all odds, stopped being a _complete_ asshole! Well, he's still a terrible person, but he's not so obvious about it. He hides it under a couple layers of courtesy and maybe even some genuine niceness, for Alfred's sake.

But Alfred can't help but think it's all out of pity. He did, after all, witness what Matt has since dubbed the Incident. Arthur hasn't spoken of it since, though it's not like Al expected him to— he just wonders what Arthur must have thought.

He wonders.

Things have been pretty mixed up in that blonde head of Alfred's ever since the Incident. He's fought with his mom before, of course, but something about that last one seems terribly final. Matt keeps begging him to call her, and he won't, not for a million bucks.

Well, okay, maybe for a million bucks. But since they can barely pay the rent on their piece-of-shit apartment, he doubts the big money is coming his way any time soon.

At least bigger money than what they're getting comes with having a job. But Alfred also had forgotten how much he _hates working._ There's a reason he liked being unemployed so much, besides the whole being-dirt-poor thing, and it was that he ever had to do anything he didn't want to.

He got thrown up on today a six-year-old and then he had to clean it up. He definitely never wanted _that;_ plus, he still smells.

Exhausted, he walks back to his apartment, which is a good mile away. He doesn't have the money for a cab, and he bemoans the exercise in his head. A Beastie Boys song is stuck there, and the only line he can remember is the one about the Chevy Impala.

He gets back home eventually, legs aching and breathing hard. As if waiting tables for eight hours wasn't work enough. Oh well, at least it might help him lose that extra weight that's been sticking around. Not enough to make him chubby, but enough to make him… softer. Yeah, that's right. Alfred is not a fan of fat. He had played football, for fuck's sake. In fact, he had been the _best_ at football. Therefore, it is in his personal creed to Always Look Like a God.

Matt would call him an egotist for saying that. Alfred would counter with a very tastefully selected "assbutt."

When he steps into the lobby, he's greeted with an odd sight, an especially odd one for ten at night: a massively tall and pale figure, blonde, in a travel-rumpled suit and the impeccably put-together woman beside him, short and olive skinned with dark hair. They're talking to Gilbert, Al's lanky and relatively annoying downstairs neighbor, the one with the obsession over the actress.

"Nice to see you, West!" Gil says (well, shouts, but that's his normal volume) from the tops of the stairs.

The taller man just hums discontentedly in return. He's got an interesting face, all sharp angles and flat planes. Alfred wishes he had his camera.

"Are you sure you don't wanna just stay here? Your big fancy history nerd conference is closer to here than it is to your hotel!" Gilbert bounds down just to punch him in the arm, which looks to Alfred like a bad idea, because the blond guy's pretty ripped.

"No," the woman chirps before Blondie can even open his mouth, her words carrying a singsong Italian lilt, "Ludwig says you are 'generally irritating and difficult to live with.'" She adds the finger quotes and everything. "We will stay with the hotel. Right, Luddy?"

Ludwig (Gilbert's brother, Alfred finally connects the name and a vaguely remembered face from a photograph) turns a shade of red that shouldn't be humanly possible. "I did not say it in so many words," he fumbles. He has a slight German accent, but it's barely there. Which is impressive— Alfred can speak Spanish but rolling his R's is a Herculean feat impossible for him to achieve.

But Gil has already stalked off to sulk, not even noticing Alfred, who's still lurking awkwardly near the stairs, watching it all unfold.

Ludwig, however, has apparently known he was there the entire darn time. "I apologize for this," he says to Alfred, obviously choosing his words carefully, trying to be polite. The girl stares at him with happy, sweet brown eyes. She's so much smaller than Ludwig, a little chubby, but cute. She looks like the kind of person who pinches toddlers' cheeks and coos.

"It's fine," Alfred laughs. "You're his brother, right?" When Ludwig nods, surprised, he continues to assure him: "I've seen pictures. I'm a friend of Gil's."

He crosses the foyer and shakes hands with Ludwig. God, his eyes are blue too? The guy couldn't get more Aryan if he tried.

"My name's Alfred Jones," Alfred says. "Nice to meet you."

Ludwig's mouth stiffens. Is that supposed to be a smile? "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt," he replies. "This is Felicia, my colleague—"

"Girlfriend," she corrects, and he turns that terrible shade of red again. She kisses Alfred on both cheeks in greeting, and he laughs it off to show it isn't awkward when he gets scared a blood vessel is going to burst in Ludwig's forehead.

"We're here for a conference," she sighs. "I hate them. They're boring."

Ludwig looks at her, exasperated. "Then _why_ did you become a historian?"

She sighs again. "I thought it would be more excavations and less _books_!"

"Felicia, that is archaeology, not history."

"Says _you,_ Luddy."

Alfred coughs a bit uncomfortably. "I'd better get going." Damn him if he's going to get caught in between the most stunted lovers' spat ever.

"Of course," Ludwig mumbles, and Alfred escapes before he becomes collateral damage. They keep arguing quietly as he bounds up the stairs.

All he can think of is falling onto his mattress and _sleeping._ He's had the waiting tables job for a month now, and it's cut back on time he can actually get Arthur to come over to take pictures.

He's been getting _real _smiles out of Arthur, lately, though— good and true and sincere ones. And that is damn _rewarding_.

Alfred pounds on the door to his apartment, his main goal being to wake up Matt for literally no reason other than to bother him (_I am the best brother ever,_ he thinks happily). After a minute of no one answering, he tests the knob, and it swings open.

Oh, _shit._

"Come_ on_!" he cries, slamming one hand over his eyes, inadvertently shoving his glasses to the side, making the rims jab into his cheek.

Really, Alfred should have known. A week of shameless flirting could only end in this, but—

_Really, Matt? In _my_ bed?_

He slams the door shut to give the idiots some privacy.Inside, he hears a frantic rustling around, whispers, and the sound that is no doubt clothes being shoved on as quickly as humanly possible.

"Come in," Kat calls timidly, her voice cracking.

Sighing and steeling himself for what is bound to be even more awkward than the meeting in the foyer, he closes his eyes and opens the door again.

Matt and Kat stand shiftlessly in the kitchen area, pretending like they weren't just fucking (in _Alfred's_ _bed!_). Matt's pants are on backwards. Kat's dress is only zipped up halfway, and her bra is still hanging off the back of the couch.

"Hey, Al," Matt says, too cheerfully. His face is so red that he's the same color as the lobster fridge magnet they got in Maine.

"Yeah! Yeah, hi!" Kat leans over onto the counter, propping herself up on her elbow. The strap of her sundress slips off, and she pulls it back on hurriedly— but it just falls off again, so she gives up.

Alfred glances over to the scene of the crime, his poor mattress. He's gonna have to _disinfect_ it.

"You two _suck._" He sighs, walks over to the couch, and promptly falls asleep, because fuck him if he's touching that mattress before it's been dry cleaned.

**x.**

"That is _not_ what _Hamlet_ is about," Arthur chides. He's sitting on the counter, sipping the tea he brought for himself (because he think coffee is "swill" and Alfred can't even begin to afford his preferred brand), his back ramrod straight and his legs crossed even in his relatively comfy looking clothes, a Zeppelin shirt with a naked angel on it.

"Whatever, man," Alfred sighs. "I'm cultured enough. I'm reading Bradbury_._"

"_Ray_ Bradbury? Like _Fahrenheit 451 _Bradbury?"

Alfred nods smugly. Arthur scoffs and drinks his tea. He looks really tired, and Alfred wonders why. He doesn't have the same pretentious air about him, though it's certainly still there. "Ninth graders read Bradbury," he scoffs, eyeing Alfred cheekily. Self-satisfied little motherfucker.

Alfred scowls and insists, "And tenth graders read _Hamlet_!"

"There is an acute difference." He sips from his chipped mug; the kettle is still steaming from when he boiled the water. Alfred didn't even know he had owned a kettle until Arthur found it in the cabinet under the sink, dusty and damaged, and he complained about it.

Why would Alfred even need a kettle? He drinks the Beverage of Kings. He _revels_ in his shitty coffee. Who even thought to shove leaves into water and then _drink_ it? What an asshole he must have been.

"And what is that acute difference?" Alfred demands.

"Oh," and Arthur smirks at this (a photo opportunity is missed, and Alfred kicks himself inwardly, wishes his hands weren't occupied by coffee so he could use his camera), "_this_ is the difference." He takes a deep breath and does that _thing_ again where he leaves with his expelled breath, replaced by someone with a slouch, with tired, angry eyes, with a mournful frown, expressive hands and a rough, bitter, younger voice. "_O, all you host of Heaven!_" he cries, and Alfred feels goosebumps rise."_O Earth! What else? / And shall I couple Hell? Oh, fie! Hold, hold my heart, / And you, my sinews, grow not instant old / But bear me swiftly up. Remember thee? / Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memory holds a seat / In this distracted globe. Remember thee!_"

Arthur-but-not-Arthur stares at him searchingly. "You're a nerd," Alfred sighs, sipping on his coffee, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. "I don't even know what you're saying to me right now."

Which, of course, just makes him act _harder. _"_Yea, from the table of my memory / I'll wipe away all trivial, fond records / All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past / That youth and observation copied—"_

"You are a very odd man."

Bless his soul, Arthur doesn't even break character. "_…Copied there, / And they commandment all alone shall live / Within the book and volume of my brain, / Unmixed with baser matter. Yes, by Heaven!_"

Alfred snort-laughs in a kind of embarrassing way. It's just that Arthur's eyes have gone all distant and twinkly and he's starting to look crazy. "That's enough soliloquizing for one day, cowboy. Come down now."

Hamlet takes a deep breath and Arthur flows back in with the oxygen. God, it's no wonder the guy's famous. He's _really_ good_._

Alfred should probably get around to seeing one of his movies sometime.

"But now you see the difference between Shakespeare and every other writer ever," Arthur declares, all matter-of-fact.

Alfred whines, "But _Fahrenheit_'s got flamethrowers."

"And metaphors that you seem to have completely ignored. You are so thick, you know that?"

"I try my hardest."

Matthew is out with Kat, which explains why the apartment is so quiet. Ever since last week's Sex Incident they've been going out a lot. Of course, their getting together was only a matter of time (they _are_ sickeningly adorable, after all), but Alfred can't help but wish the inciting incident hadn't taken place between _his own_ sheets.

Seriously. Matt has a bed _right next to Alfred's._ There is no need for such… such _tomfoolery!_

(Alfred loves that word now. Ludwig, Gilbert's tight-ass brother, likes to use it when he acts like his girlfriend Felicia is bothering him but is actually turning him on like there's no tomorrow.)

"To be honest, I'm rather surprised that you read," Arthur says, and they way he says it is just so freaking pompous that Alfred isn't even sure Arthur is aware of the insult.

So he drains the final dregs of his coffee, preps his camera, and says, "You are a terrible person." Then he captures the ensuing reaction.

Arthur splutters, rubbing his eyes after the flash, "And you're _not?_"

"No, I am." He throws a dazzling smile the actor's way. "I'm just less obvious about it."

"You _suck_."

"I do, indeed." He preens in the glare thrown his way. "And for your information, I _do_ read. I'm just not a Shakespeare buff like you, Mr. Actor With a Freakishly Good Memory."

Arthur shrugs, for once trying to be modest. "When you've _played_ Hamlet, you sort of have to memorize the lines."

"Details, details."

Arthur finishes his tea and hops gracefully down from the counter to throw it in the sink, where he turns on the tap and starts rinsing it out.

"Oh, so _now_ you're being polite," Alfred fake-sighs.

Arthur grunts at him.

"Please, don't be kind. It's so out of character."

He throws the mug in the strainer and moves onto a plate, holding it with wide hands, and he's smiling when he says "You truly are an asshole."

"Then why do you keep coming back?"

Arthur raises one enormous eyebrow skeptically. "Remember the whole consensual blackmail thing we have going on? No?"

Alfred almost chokes, but covers with a "Yeah." He had forgotten about the incriminating picture. He'd lost it, actually; it was on the coffee table and it, kind of, um, disappeared. But the shoots had been going so well, so what Arthur doesn't know doesn't hurt him, Alfred had figured. He'd had the first set of pictures developed the other day, just to look at them on something other than a memory card.

And they're _good._

So.

Arthur doesn't need to know that any pretend blackmail, at this point, is a complete _lie_.

"So just let me clean your dishes without a complaint." Arthur throws the drying towel at him, and it slams into his face, hanging there damply.

"Hey, whatever you say." Alfred says, muffles, and pulls the thing off with a theatrical flourish. "You're the famous and powerful one."

"And don't you forget it, you ungrateful little fucker."

"How sickeningly domestic. Don't you have a housemaid or something to do this for you back in England?"

He scoffs. "It isn't 1912."

Alfred shrugs. "How am I supposed to know? I've never been there."

"Never been to England?" Alfred nods. "That's no excuse for ignorance." Arthur is quiet for a moment, but then he says over the gentle rush of water, "I'd recommend it. It's a lovely place."

"I've always wanted to see London," Alfred says. He hasn't. He's just saying it for Arthur's sake, but apparently it was the right thing to say, because he relaxes immediately just at the thought of it. Suddenly he looks a lot less tired.

"London is nice," he sighs, averting his eyes and washing the dishes like a robot. mechanically and without watching, "but the countryside is better."

"Hm." Alfred sniffs idly. "That's an unpopular opinion."

"Is it? It's where I grew up, anyway." He shuts off the water and dries his hands on the naked angel on his shirt (Alfred seriously needs to ask him what the hell is up with that). "You wouldn't believe it. Where I'm from, it's how it's supposed to be in story books. That old misty England that King Arthur lived in, you know? The old people used to swear they saw fairies around." And with an embarrassed laugh that Alfred catches in a picture, he says, "I believed them, for the longest time." He quiets a little. "Maybe I still do. Maybe I'm crazy."

He turns to Alfred with wide, slightly panicked eyes. He's regretted everything he just said. "What do you have in the way of alcohol?"

"We have the cheapest whiskey this side of the United States," Alfred says..

"Good. Give me lots of it."

Alfred grabs it from the cabinet under the sink. It's half empty but there's plenty for both of them, so he can be generous, pouring them into the first glasses he can find: one is a mug from Chattanooga, Tennessee. The other is a plastic kid's cup with Iron Man on it.

Arthur gets the Iron Man cup. "Golly, thanks," he groans, but takes a swig anyway.

He barely even winces.

**x.**

"I will not _stand_ for this!"

Mr. Wang, for a tiny man, is surprisingly loud; the poor couple he's standing next to probably just got their eardrums blown out.

He's stomping around, making a fuss— which is no new event— but when he's stomping and fussing about something his nephew did, well, _then_ it's ten times worse.

Said nephew is another waiter at the restaurant, a guy a year or three older than Alfred (but still shorter). Al calls him Soup just to piss him off, but his real name is Im Yong Soo, and he will do literally _anything_ to impress his uncle.

Most of these schemes just manage to piss Yao off, though; _this_ scheme is currently taking the cake.

That morning, when Alfred had walked in five minutes late, he had expected to be screamed at. But no— Mr. Wang was too occupied shrieking at Soup, who had dragged in a baby grand and stuck it in an empty corner.

Yeah, a baby grand_. _A _piano._ Alfred can't stop staring at it, and he's tripped over table legs at least three times just looking.

In all honesty, the thing's a piece of shit. It's chipped and has been repainted too many times to count (right now it's this shiny dark navy blue, but by the looks of the other layers, it used to be a sparkly hot pink, and before that, green), but musically it should still be in good shape.

And when was the last time Alfred dragged his fingers across a set of keys? _Way_ too long. He had played piano for _years_ as a kid, took lessons from the super nice old guy down the street, until he got arrested for shoplifting.

Even with the crazy teacher and said crazy teacher's shitty piano, he had loved playing.

And he still does! The problem is that his keyboard is back in L.A.; he and Matt had left on their road trip (which they were never destined to return from) months ago, and their apartment had long since been reclaimed. There's no chance of getting that hunk-of-crap plastic back. As terrible as it was, though, it had been _something._

"What are we going to do with a _piano?_" Mr. Wang shouts. The couple near him, who are serving as collateral damage to Soup's punishment, run hurriedly out of the establishment, looking pissed off, and for good reason. Mr. Wang doesn't even notice; he just keeps screaming.

"Entertainment!" Soup answers, not even fazed. "This place is so dull! With some musi—"

"Pah!" Mr. Wang smacks Soup across the jaw, who doesn't flinch; he just pouts.

"Idiotic!" continues his uncle. "Besides, I'm not going to hire someone just to play pian—"

"Mr. Wang?" Alfred pipes up timidly.

The tiny terror whips around to face Alfred, his graying ponytail— it must have been jet black when he was younger, and you can tell because it still shines a little— swinging behind him. "_What?_" he cries.

Another group of customers leaves, mumbling angrily. Everyone else is staring, either scared or finding the whole thing kinda funny.

Oh, what Alfred will do for his friends. Soup is looking at him eagerly, mouthing _thank you thank you thank you._

"I can play it," he near-whispers.

Something must have gone _snap_ in Mr. Wang's brain, because now he's grinning crookedly with a wild look in his narrow eyes. "Can you, now?" And the wild look goes even creepier, if that's possible. "But I'm in a _good mood_ today—" somehow doubtful— "so why don't you give us an_ example?_"

Alfred swallows uncomfortably, and he can feel his face going hot. Everybody's staring at him with weird looks on their faces, expecting a show. "I'm a bit out of practice," he says timidly, and the customers, who have become his audience, laugh. His face coloring even more, he steps over to the piano, sits at the bench, and presses a key. A bit out of tune, but good enough.

"How impressive," Mr. Wang says dryly.

"Come on, he's just getting started." Soup looks at him a little desperately. "_Right?_"

Alfred nods quickly. "Um, right." He hasn't really got many songs memorized any more, and it's been a few months, but he manages to bang out a couple lines of "Superstition." After a while, he gets into it, swinging like he used to, and damn, he forgot just how much he loves this.

He notices, from across the room, his body go into full Music Mode, as his mother used to call it. He's hunched over the piano like the guy at Notre Dame, arms and fingers crooked like Dracula at his organ. He'd never had good technique; his teacher had always chided him for that. But he still stands by his opinion that technique is dumb, anyway, if you've got the sound you want.

He trips up once his memory starts getting fuzzy, but it's near the end anyway, so he lays on one final flourish and he stops.

He straightens, and his spine cracks painfully. Heat Mr. Wang.

Soup is grinning so hard he's probably gonna pull a muscle. Even Mr. Wang's face has softened, and the customers are clapping, not just that dumb polite thing people do but like they really truly enjoyed it, and Alfred feels a smile warm up his face.

"You're not waiting tables anymore," Mr. Wang says happily to Alfred.

To his nephew: "But you're still paying for the piano."

**x.**

His brother is sitting on the couch with Kat, one arm over her shoulders, the sappy little motherfuckers they are. She grins at him as Alfred steps into the apartment, shaking the early snow out of the clumpy fur collar of his bomber jacket.

"You'll never believe the promotion I got today," he says excitedly.

"What? Head busboy?" Matt doesn't even look at him; instead, he changes the channel to an _American Idol_ rerun, where some chick is belting a pitchy rendition of "Paint it Black." (Arthur would wince, his love for the Stones being legendary, and Simon Cowell's insults somehow remind Alfred of him.)

Kat smacks him. "Listen to your brother."

"Geez, Matt, you should bring her around more often. She knows what she's talking about." His grin almost drowns out Matt's look of utter disdain.

"I get to play piano now," he says giddily before his brother can interject with something even more snarky than before. "At the restaurant. Soup brought in this little baby grand! You know how he always has these dumb ideas, right? Except Mr. Wang let me play and now he wants me to come in a few nights a week just to play. No more waiting tables for me!" Alfred realizes that his face hurts from smiling.

Matt shoots up from the couch, almost smacking Kat in the face.

"Come on," she complains. While he's going to applaud his twin, she sighs and changes the channel back to_ 60 Minutes._

"Congrats, man," Matt laughs, annihilating Alfred with one of his famously painful bro-hugs— the resounding _slap_ of palm-on-back contact can probably be heard for miles around.

"_Ow,_" Alfred wheezes.

"It's worth the pain for the congratulations."

He shakes his head and struggles out of his brother's grip. "It really isn't."

**x.**

After an hour of waiting for Arthur with no word, frustrated and tapping at his camera, laying out on his mattress just hoping for the door to open so he can finally _get these pictures,_ Alfred's phone rings.

His cell is a piece of shit, but it does the job. He flips it open (_yes,_ it's a flip phone) and, viola, it's Arthur himself. Pressing it to his ear he says, "What the hell, dude?"

"_Sorry,_" and the voice on the other end is weird_. _Not just because of the static; it's too flowy, too languorous."_I don't want to ruin the appointment altogether, so can you come to the hotel? Thanks. I'll explain, ah, once you're here._"

"What? Why?" And when he realizes he isn't going to get those answers, he asks, "Where are you even staying?"

"_The Tory._"

"The Tory? Like, the _Tory,_ Tory?"

"_I'm not aware that there's another Tory Hotel in Boston,_" says Arthur skeptically.

Alfred pinches the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses off. With a grunt of disgust, he shoves them back on. "Dude, that place is a nuclear warhead of ritzy-ness. The doorman won't even let me in."

"_He will if you say 'Camilla has a flute lesson with Dr. Sand.'_"

"Dude, you have a _password_?"

"_Stalkers, Alfred._" He sighs a big, aristocratic sigh."_Lots and lots of stalkers. Ciao._"

The line goes dead before Alfred can even say another word.

"What an _ass,_" Alfred whispers to himself.

He stands up.

Alfred is, in all truthfulness, totally intimidated by the prospect of going to the Tory. The place is quite literally _the fanciest_. The fanciest, except with a lot of unnecessary flips and swooshes and stuff. He's never been there, but the mental image of chandeliers and ball gowns are enough to intimidate any guy who grew up in the boonies of Connecticut.

Out of the closet formerly infested with owls— Kat, who is probably the bravest person Alfred has ever met, had cleared them out with a broom and a well-aimed bottle of Lysol a week ago— Alfred grabs his suit, the thing he bought in LA and never, ever had to wear before. He's not exactly a formal guy, as is evidenced by his hoodie, sweatpants, and socks that are so full of holes they could be better used as, say, a basketball net. Wearing something like a suit is rather foreign to him.

But, hey, when in Rome. He throws the thing on, and shoves his too-big feet into a pair of scuffed black dress shoes he's had since sophomore year. (Of high school.) And out the door he goes, and he heads outside to hail a cab.

He's heading straight into the belly of a very, very fancy beast.

It's only when he's halfway there does he realize he forgot his damn camera, making him have to turn back. By then it's dark, and his cabbie is _pissed_ and demands a massive tip, which Alfred gives him because he is seriously not in the negotiating mood. At least playing piano at a bad Chinese restaurant pays well enough to give him the money for a prolonged cab ride.

The Tory. It's even more intimidating when you have to go _inside,_ as if the gilt and the _standards_ it has aren't scary enough without the prospect of actually entering.

The doorman is surveying Alfred suspiciously as he gawps. "Sir?"

Alfred glances down at his sweaty palm, where he had written Arthur's password. It's now mostly smudged away. "Uh, I think Camilla has a flute lesson with Dr. Sand or something?"

The doorman blanches. "_You_?"

Alfred blinks. "What?"

"_You're_ going to see Arthur Kirkland?"

Alfred hears the implied, "A slob like you?" He clears his throat and replies, "Well… yeah." As an afterthought, he adds, "We're friends."

The guy scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Nobody _that_ famous and _that_ mean ever has friends."

Okay, now he's just making Alfred angry. "Well, you're wrong, 'cause he's got me." it sounds really stupid but he's glad he said it. "You gonna let me in?"

A sigh. "Yeah, whatever. Fourteenth floor, suite 5." He presses one white-gloved hand against the glass of the door and pushes it open.

He doesn't get a "thanks." Or a tip.

Alfred is almost blinded by all the marble, the chandeliers, the polite bustle of classy staff and the scuffing of expensive Italian shoes on carpet. There's one guy who just _has_ to be a Mafioso, with the pinstripes and everything, dark auburn hair and an errant curl so huge it almost spins over the brim of his hat. Yeah, because of course he's got a fedora, too. He's surveying the room with a broody kind of anger. He grins like a shark at the sight of Alfred, who scurries away like a spooked puppy.

Alfred feels himself being stared at with every step across the lobby to the golden elevators. He pretends it's because he's wildly attractive, but, more realistically, he knows it's because his hair is a mess and he looks about as at home in a suit as he would in a torture chamber.

Thankfully, it's getting late, so the elevator is empty except for a woman who (Alfred is relatively sure, hasn't he seen her on TV?) is the wife of an oil baron. She keeps smiling at him slyly, and at one point he catches her winking at him in the mirrors at the back. He just keeps smiling at her kind of awkwardly, trying to send out a silent message that _I am gay and you are probably married._

Thankfully, her stop is at the tenth floor, so he gets a flirt-free ride the rest of the way up.

The elevator doors open into an equally pretty hallway, lined on both sides with doors, intermediately spaced. Five is at the end. Alfred steps carefully over the carpet like he's avoiding land mines. For all he knows, he might be. It's also completely deserted with no sound at all, and it's _creepy._

The door that is supposedly Arthur's is big and shiny, painted white with gold numbers on it. They're probably made of _real_ gold, for all Alfred knows.

He hesitates, and then he knocks.

There's a bit of inner shuffling, the blare of a TV on too loud, and it takes a second too long for the door to open. There's Arthur (who else?), one hip thrown to the side, swinging on the doorknob a little.

He's _tipsy_, for God's sake. Not smashed enough to be off his rocker (not enough to be throwing around accents, at least, like that first time Alfred saw him), but enough to sling a careless smile across a pink face. "Hello," he says, much too slowly and cheerfully for the normally stoic Arthur, and it's _weird._ But it explains the off tone he'd had on the phone earlier.

"Hi," Alfred greets, kind of uncertainly. His hands go to his camera, automatically; it's a comfort.

"You can, yeah, come in. Yeah." Arthur swings away from the door, leaving it wide open, ambles back inside, and promptly disappears.

It's barely even a hotel room; it's more of a suite, practically a penthouse. It's huge, colored red and white, with splashes of gold. The TV is massive and it's on some concert channel. A guy in a jacket with really long tassels is running around and yelling about pinball. It sounds really familiar.

In front of the TV is a couch, red and gold, and there's a man who_ definitely_ isn't Arthur sitting in I,t looking carefully relaxed. His back is straight but not enough to be uncomfortable, his long, thin legs are crossed on the cushions in front of him, a picture of lounging comfort. His blond hair, wow, what a nice color it is; too nice to be natural, Alfred thinks, but who knows, he might be wrong.

He's also scowling, and his pointy face (cheekbones defined, but sharper, not rounded and smooth like Arthur's) is covered in dark stubble, another clue to whether his hair is dyed or not. All evidence is pointing to dyed.

The man turns to face him when he steps through the door, and every one of his movements is carefully languid, like a cat's. He treasures grace, doesn't he? And Alfred sees that he was right— the guy's not a natural blonde, you can see the chocolate brown showing on the crown of his head. That's not a bad color, either, so Alfred doesn't really see the point of him changing anything.

A bright smile is flashed his way, smoky blue eyes lidded in some sultry way that Alfred doesn't pick up on. "You are the photographer!" he cries, but there's something dry in his voice that does not quite approve of him.

"Yeeees," Alfred answers warily, drawing out the syllable. Should he know this man? He looks kinda familiar. Arthur's putzing around in the little kitchen off to the side (what kind of hotel room has a fucking _kitchen?_), singing along loudly with song the band is playing on the TV. "_A pin ball wizard, / Got such a supple wrist…_"

"I have heard much about you," the French guy mentions offhandedly. Instead of getting up from the couch, he beckons Alfred over with one long, graceful hand.

What the fuck is he playing at? Alfred doesn't move, standing staunchly in the doorway and scowling.

At Alfred's stubbornness, all that pasted-on grace washes away and leaves a frowning Frenchman where the pretty one was.

Arthur emerges from the little kitchen with his uncharacteristic grin still plastered on his smooth face, and even when tipsy, it kind of suits him. He looks younger that way. Arthur's only around thirty, if People magazine covers are to be believed (that birthday bash he threw last year was the most publicized thing from here to China). Plus, contrary to the stereotype about the English, he's got pretty nice teeth. He's carrying a bottle of wine in one fist and he's swinging it kind of dangerously.

"So, why is there a French guy here?" Alfred asks, not feeling up to beating the bush. He's tired, he's kind of pissed that he had to come all the way to the fanciest fucking hotel in Boston, and there's something else nagging at him that he downright refuses to acknowledge. And _that's_ biting right at his heart, striking whenever he looks at Arthur.

(It's been happening more and more, lately, and God, it's scary.)

"I've been upset quite a bit today," Arthur replies cheerfully, so contrary to what he just said, and tosses the wine bottle to the French guy. "That cunt's name is Francis. A big fucking douche but a friend nonetheless. He came to make sure I didn't go out and get hammered, but he arrived rather late for that. I'm in the process of getting hammered from the comfort of my own home" He waves a hand at the guy on his couch. "Open that, will you, chap?"

Francis' scowl deepens. "No."

The concert goes to commercial, and a narrator says they're playing old concert footage of the Who. Which explains the pinball song.

Arthur just laughs. He looks more disheveled than Alfred's ever seen him; his suit jacket is rumpled on the floor across the room, he's grinning like a maniac, his dress shirt is unbuttoned enough so Alfred can see one single collarbone at the base of his pale neck. His chest does something funny and he swallows.

_Please don't tell me I've got feelings for an alcoholic movie star,_ he pleads with his heart.

_Sorry, buddy,_ says his heart.

**A/N: LOVE HUUUUUUURTS, LOVE SMAAAAAAAARTS**

**Reviews are as valuable as Lucy in the sky with diamonds, minus Lucy and the sky. Your comments so far have been priceless, and they've made me feel a lot better after a period of Life Shittiness when nothing else could. I thank you all, my beloved readers, with every living cell of my heart.**

** Because of that, there's really no excuse for how late this chapter was, but I'm going to give one/some anyway. I lost inspiration, school really started to tear into me, and life in general has been getting me down. But I'm back! I can't say that updates will come any more frequently, but I will try to keep you all posted on my progress at my newly formed writeblog.**

** Yes, friends, a writeblog! Huzzah! My personal tumblr has the same name as this dear account, but my blog set aside specifically for fic writing purposes is **_**vennumbereleven dot tumblr dot com.**_** (I admit, I've never been creative with names.) All my Hetalia/Sherlock junk should be up there soon, along with some drabbles that will be exclusive to my writeblog! Hope you decide to join me for the Tumblr ride.**

** (Plus, with the major purges going on here at , I won't be relocating completely, but an AO3 account may be somewhere in my future. There, I will update my fics in parallel with my account.)**

** Ta, gents! **

**~Ven**


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